Growing Pains
by grimwoode
Summary: Future AU. The Russo-American War has brought devastation. Countless lives have changed forever. The Nordics experience a great loss and Finland and Iceland try to help each other cope with the tragedy that was forced upon them.
1. Prologue

_Cover page drawn by the lovely kaffeogte ;*_

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Iceland and Finland were standing in the stiff winter cold on a cliff of the fjords. They stood side-by-side, shivering in their parkas. They were lucky that the North Sea was so unusually calm today. It was a good day for a funeral.

But Iceland and Finland didn't see it that way. They didn't care for the vibrant orange sky as it transitioned to the deep purple of dusk. They didn't notice the first rays of the aurora borealis as it tinted the world below in greens and blues. All their attention was set on the three lit barges drifting farther away from them with flames licking a cloudless sky. There hasn't been a viking funeral in centuries, but it felt more fitting to have just one more. Just this once.

Even the bitter cold barely fazed them in their current state. They felt raw with emotion and numb from the shock of the suddenness of what they had to experience. It happened so suddenly. They thought they had more time.

And now they only have each other left.

Finland had become hyperaware of Iceland's behaviour and emotions, so it didn't come as much of a surprise when Iceland started sobbing, his body heaving violently as he tried desperately to breathe through his tears.

Finland mechanically put his arm around the younger nation's shoulders. He wanted to break down too, but as much as he wanted to drop any pretense of composure, he wanted — no, _needed_ — to stay strong for Iceland. So seeing him crying of a broken heart made Finland's own heart wrench and twist into his gut.

Iceland just felt guilt and pain. He felt guilty for every useless, pointless argument he ever had with his brother. He felt pain, because he would never have the opportunity to make it up to him. He couldn't understand why Finland was so unnaturally calm. Didn't he care? His three closest friends died and yet he was so unnatural calm. So still. Suddenly frightened, Iceland looked up at Finland. He had his head bent forward, his lips were shut tight and his breaths were shallow.

"Fi—Finland…"

He lolled his head up and looked down at Iceland. For the briefest moment, Finland's eyes were shrouded and soulless. Before Iceland could register what he'd seen, it was gone, and replaced with the usual cheerfulness that was so familiar to him. The smile that hung loosely on his lops wasn't very convincing though.

"Just look on the bright side, Ice," he said as he squeezed his shoulders. "Now you'll finally be able to grow big and strong."

Iceland couldn't hold back the look of horror and disdain on his face. How could Finland be talking like this now, so soon after they died? They barely started to grieve.

"Now you'll have Denmark's and Norway's lands and resources. Your economy will improve. Oh! And—"

"Why are you talking like this?"

Iceland's harsh tone stung Finland.

"I just hate seeing you sad and I wanted to cheer you up." He didn't mean to offend.

"I don't want cheering up. I just want to grieve." Iceland's brows were furrowed with frustration. He didn't know why he was angry, and he knew he shouldn't be taking it out on Finland. After all, they only had each other now, but somehow, it couldn't really be helped. "I don't want to grow big and strong. I just want my brother back!" His hands were balled into fists now. He didn't want to fight. Not now.

"Ice, I'm sorry. I know. It's hard. It's ha—" He couldn't end his sentence. The lump in his throat had grown too big.

And then he started to cry as well.

It was hitting him so hard.

He was never going to see Sweden again.

Both of them are crying now, and they held on to each other so tight, they were both suffocating with grief.

_It all happened so fast. It isn't fair._

Finland wasn't able to keep his composure. He broke down in ugly sobs and gasps. His legs buckled, and Iceland fell with him.

They were both cold, sore, and hurting. With their hearts broken and their bodies stiff from cold, they clung together and slept under the glittering stars, until the northern lights no longer lit the sky and the pyres were extinguished at sea.

"Why does growing up have to be so painful?" Iceland whispered half to himself.

"Because you're strong enough to handle it," came Finland's half-hearted response.

They only had each other left. No one was going to be able to step over them. No one was going to get between them.

They will be strong. They will be brave. They will live with Norway's, Denmark's, and Sweden's memories, and they will be better for it.

This is not the end. Only a new beginning.


	2. The Centenary

**June 2, 2168**

This was just another world meeting, where every country comes together and tries to fix world problems. These meetings started shortly after the Second World War in an effort to create better relations between nations. It worked for about a hundred years, and then the Russo-American War happened. Many other countries were caught in the crossfires.

This year is the 100 year anniversary celebrating the end of the Russo-American War, and Poland was late to host the meeting. Everyone had a feeling he was going to blow things out of proportion, but since he's currently the only super-country, no one was willing to protest.

Finland was sitting next to Iceland, but he was talking animatedly with Estonia while Latvia and Lithuania awkwardly listened. The relations between the Baltic countries has grown slightly better since the war, but not enough for them to consider each other brothers. Finland sometimes still limped, but it was much less noticeable than it once was.

Of the five of them, Iceland went through the most dramatic change: he'd since grown taller than Finland and although he was still slender, there was a noticeable difference in his muscle mass. He lost his baby face, too. The resemblance he now shared with his brother was eerie; the brother that died during the Russo-American War.

Iceland felt a pang in his chest. Thinking about his brother still hurt sometimes. Thinking about Denmark and Sweden hurt too, actually.

_Please don't cry right now_, he begged himself.

"Icey? Are you okay?"

Oh, that was another difference: since they only had each other now, Finland and Iceland seem to have become hyper-aware of one another.

"It's okay, Fin. I'm okay."

Regardless, Finland disengaged from Estonia in order to lace his fingers with Iceland's below the table, and leaned in to give him a peck on his cheek. It never failed to comfort Iceland and when it did, it always made Finland's heart flutter to see Iceland's sweet smile because of it.

Just then, Poland finally decided it was time to show up, and he was followed by a team of caterers. Each one of the caterers wheeled in a table loaded with heavy trays of food from various nationalities, and last to enter was a giant three layer slab cake decorated to look like a half-American, half-Russian flag split down the middle. There were figurines on top of the cake in the likeness of America and Russia holding hands. It would remind one of a wedding cake topper.

It was worse than anyone imagined. Poland went too far.

"Oh…" The word just slipped from Finland's mouth. Just because the war ended in a marriage between America and Russia, it didn't mean they would like to be reminded of the fact now.

"Damn it, Poland…" cried Germany under his breath. Clearly, he agreed with Iceland and Finland regarding Poland's tactless move — no surprise there.

"I hope everyone is hungry, because there's lots of food to go around! Something for every palate! Any food left over will be given to the poor!" Poland winked at the assembly. He was obviously expecting people to jump up and dig in, but everyone remained seated. They all seemed to be holding their breath.

America was the first to stand and walk over to the array of food now placed in the centre of the room. Everyone watched tensely, not quite knowing how he would react. They all knew America and Russia weren't happy to be married. The marriage was simply a necessity.

America strode towards the cake. "Yo, Poland," he said, beaming his greatest smile, "you remembered our wedding anniversary!"

"Yes, how thoughtful of you," added Russia.

"Well, duh! 100 years is a big deal!"

Everyone seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief and the room became vibrant with the bustling of chairs and they all gathered around the food to socialize.

"I guess they grew to get along since their union," said Iceland.

He approached one of the tables. He wasn't hungry, but he might as well try to look like he wants to be there. He lifted the dome from the tray nearest to him. Hákarl. Poland would have had to plan this over several months to prepare this from scratch.

"Poland thought of everything," said Finland.

"Poland always thinks of everything," said Iceland. That's how he became a super-country in the first place.

This was going to be a strange and unusual world meeting.

Neither of them could hardly wait for this day to end.

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**Notes**: Hákarl is the name of that Icelandic dish made with fermented shark.

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**Notice**:

So I know some of you are reading this right now and may have questions. Yes, this is going to be a lengthy fic. Yes, I'm going to update it. It started out as just a one-shot, but then a friend found it, got all excited about it, and inspired me to write more and now what used to be a one-shot has become a prologue to a future AU fic.

I have two projects to finish up before I continue this one: _Dead Man's Prayer_ and a Viking!Sunor I have planned.

In the mean time, I hope interest in this fic will grow and I look forward to hearing from you, the readers!


	3. The Fear

**October 26, 2059**

The war had officially begun three years prior when America took his battles in the Middle-East a step too far. He'd wandered into Russia's territory and Russia fought back much harder than the Middle-Eastern countries had. No one can say they were surprised by this, but they were surprised to find this little misstep was the catalyst for a full-scale war. Very few countries sided with one or the other, since most still heavily regretted the events of the 20th century, but over the course of the years, both America and Russia started invading other countries for resources, and before long, many were involved in the war despite their best efforts to remain neutral.

Within the first year, America had unofficially begun occupying Canada and Mexico under the pretense of a "friendly invasion," offering them his protection in exchange for their resources, workers, and soldiers. It was only a matter of time until he moved to South America.

On the other side of the world, Russia managed to successfully re-invade all his former territories in Eastern Europe in the last three years. Just last month, he started occupying a large portion of Finland's land. The invasion came too fast and too hard for Finland to properly push him back, and before long, all he had left was a small portion of land in the North. The other Nordic countries wanted to help him as best they could, but there were only so many resources they could spare without essentially letting Russia into their lands as well. They did their best to maintain solidarity in their neutrality, but Russia was testing it, tempting them to side with America in this dangerous war. America was content to leave them alone and not pester them into joining his side, knowing they would eventually seek his help out when their own war efforts didn't work against Russia.

The Nordics wanted to avoid this as long as they could. They had pushed Russia back before and they were confident they could do it again, no matter how long it's been since they last fought a war. Finland was out scouting in his occupied land, trying to figure out how well protected it was, what sort of resources the Russians had, and the best path to take through the forests and tundra without getting caught.

Denmark, Norway, and Sweden were in the base's conference room discussing strategy. Iceland couldn't figure out why they left him out of these meetings when they let him take part in all the other meetings—what difference did it make that this was a wartime meeting? He felt he had as much right to listen to these meetings as any other. He might have been the least at risk of invasion from Russia because of where he was located, but he didn't feel like that was a good enough reason to keep him out of the strategy meetings. If anything, it felt like the other Nordics simply didn't trust him with their secrets and that hurt more than anything. He hated being left in the dark on these important matters, so he made a habit of sneaking up to the door where they met and to listen in on them. He was surprised to find that today's meeting had an altogether different purpose…

"I insist, guys," said Denmark in his serious voice, the one that scared Iceland most because it seemed too out of place for the Dane. "We need to train him so he can defend himself properly."

"He's had plenty of training," scoffed Norway. "We trained him tons when he was a kid."

"That was play-training, and that was centuries ago when we still used swords. It doesn't fucking count and you know it, Norge!"

"I don't see the point in getting him involved! He's fine as he is," whimpered Norway.

Denmark sighed with frustration. "Nor, at the rate we're going, we _can't_ always be around to protect him. This means he has to be able to protect himself."

"Dan, I don't—"

"_Please, Nor,_" pleaded Denmark.

"I think Denmark's right," interrupted Sweden, speaking for the first time. "How bad do you think you'll feel if something happens to us—like what happened to Finland—and we can't protect him anymore, leaving him alone and vulnerable?"

There was a pause where neither of them spoke. It wasn't everyday Sweden and Denmark actually agreed on anything, ever, so Iceland stood there feeling a little stunned by the event. He imagined his brother realized it too and would be biting his lip thoughtfully while the other two watched him, waiting to see if he would cave. The silence seemed to drag on forever until a barely discernible sigh was heard from Norway.

"Fine," he said just above a whisper. "We'll train Iceland…"

Iceland could hear the other two finally breathe out the breath they'd been holding. Evidently, they thought it would be harder to convince Norway.

"Alright," concluded Denmark. "We might as well get started."

Iceland had heard enough by this point. He felt nervous and nauseous all of the sudden, so he started stumbling to the little room in the base where he slept with his brother. He wondered just how much trouble they were in to think they might not be around for him in the near future, and why they were keeping him from knowing the truth. Iceland hoped to himself that maybe if they started training him, then maybe they'll let him join in the strategy meetings, instead of constantly leaving him in the dark. What were they hoping to protect him from by keeping him in the dark on these matters?

He let himself fall backwards on his bed and laid there, staring up at the concrete ceiling. It was dawning on him that the others were very afraid of the outcome of this war. That's why he was going to start training with them: so he would be okay even when they weren't.

He rolled over onto his side and clutched his pillow to his chest, contemplating a world where he wouldn't have the others around anymore. The thought hurt too much. Before long, tears welled in his eyes and he had to push the thoughts back. He wasn't going to cry while he trained. He wasn't going to let it bother him. This was a good thing; nothing more. There was nothing to be bothered by.

Iceland wondered whether Finland was safe where he was before he drifted off to sleep, feeling emotionally exhausted.


	4. The Anniversary

**Notes**: Wow, I'm sorry it took me so long to bounce back from my little writing break. I'll go back to cranking out one chapter per week, so long as my school load allows it!

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**June 2, 2069**

A year has passed since they've signed their peace treaty ending the Russo-American War. The aftershocks are still rippling throughout the nations, but the biggest and most subtle ripple is the union between Russia and the United States of America. They were forced into this union by Poland, the only current superpower, with the idea that if they can't work together, than they will eventually destroy each other before they could destroy anymore lives.

The past year has been especially difficult for Russia and America. While everyone else was slowly picking themselves back up, the Russian and American economies, resources, and populations have continued to dwindle due to the constant civil unrest and revolts against each other. They had only now come to terms with the fact that Poland was right and they were quickly killing each other.

Enough was enough.

Now they realize that if they want to survive what is left of their marriage contract—all 99 years of it—they needed to work together and somehow convince their people to work together as well. They didn't have to like it. They didn't have to like each other. They just needed to learn to play nice and get it over with. This is why they decided to dampen their egos and their prides in order to talk it over. They sat down and, after much arguing, finally decided living together was the easiest way to pool their resources. To keep things fair, they would alternate from one year to the next: one year in the USA, one year in Russia. They agreed to start this new tradition in America's household because America thinks his place is better and Russia saw this as an opportunity to exploit America's weaknesses.

This was their first day living together. They arrived the night before and had already gotten into an argument about their sleeping arrangements.

"You can pick whichever room you want on the top floor," stated America as they crossed the threshold of his colonial manor. "Just don't pick the master bedroom at the end of the hall, 'cause that one's mine."

"Don't worry—I do not intend to sleep with you," retorted Russia, dropping his bags in the foyer.

"Oh, I'll be sleeping on the main floor," informed America, walking towards the kitchen.

Russia took a moment to let this obvious flaw in logic sink in. "Why sleep on the main floor if you already have a bedroom upstairs?"

"Security purposes, obviously," came America's careless reply.

Russia didn't think this was obvious at all. "What do you mean," he pushed further, following America loosely. His brow furrowed as he considered possible reasonings how America sleeping on the main floor could possibly improve security. Unless—

"Well, that way, unless you decide to jump out the window, you're pretty much cornered up there." Then he chuckled. "You can be pretty dense sometimes."

Russia's expression darkened with a mixture of anger and embarrassment that he was too proud to show, bristling with distrust, and America noticed.

"Woah, hey, chill! I didn't mean it like th—"

"Things are supposed to be _fair_ from now on," snapped Russia.

"Well excuse me, but I think I have good reasons not to trust you!"

"Oh, and you somehow think I trust _you_?!"

"Hey, this is my house! My rules," he exclaimed. "You can have your own rules when we move to your place!" America knew he would one day regret making that promise and his suspicions were confirmed when Russia's expression immediately changed to a jovial one.

"Okay," he agreed.

_At least I can get him back the year after_, thought America soberly.

The rest of the evening passed without discord. They ate separately, spent their leisure time separately, and slept separately, both actively avoiding the other. Russia had no qualms about making himself at home in the bedroom farthest from America's and America set himself up in the parlour at the base of the staircase where he could hear every creak if Russia dared to try sneaking past him for whatever KGB Russian crap he might try to pull on him. In the increasingly fragile state he was in, America refused to take any chances.

But Russia knew better. He knew that if America bothered to cover his ass by sleeping next to his office, then he wasn't getting past his defences easily. He knew he was going to have to earn America's trust before he would ever let his guard down around him.

He will be patient. He will come out on top, finally.

With this resolution, they both went to bed determined, slept uneasily, and woke up cranky. Neither of them could shake the fact that they were sleeping so close to someone they just recently considered an enemy. It kept them on edge and suspicious right up to the early morning. They both got up and bided their time, America stalking the main floor while Russia paced his new bedroom with the door locked. Neither of them wanted to risk facing the other, not in the sleep-deprived and miserable state they were in—neither of them felt prepared for the inevitable onslaught that would come from it.

When Russia heard the clang of pans, he realized he was getting hungry and couldn't push it off much longer. He took a deep breath to gather his courage and finally left his room. _My room,_ he repeated to himself. The thought of him having his own room in America's house seemed so strange. He may never get used to it, much like he may never get used to actually being _married_ to him.

Russia found his way back to the kitchen cautiously, although his grumbling stomach would betray his presence right away. He found America already there, sifting through his cupboards which didn't seem to have any organization to them.

"What are you doing," wondered Russia aloud.

"Today's Sunday!" answered America, again, as though it were obvious.

"So…?"

"So, I always made pancakes on Sundays!" he finally elaborated.

Russia paused as he wondered if this was America's tradition or an American tradition. "Huh," he pondered. "Let me help," he added, considering this a good opportunity to start earning America's trust.

Besides, he didn't trust America to _not_ try to kill him with fluffy goodness. It would be just like him, actually.

"No way, man. You'll just ruin them," protested America.

"I know how to make pancakes," persisted Russia. He grabbed the large bowl that had already been set aside. "Just hand me the ingredients and I'll mix them. Much faster that way," he reasoned.

"Ugh," groaned America. He wasn't in any mood to argue. "Fine, but they better turn out as good as usual."

Russia's lip tilted up into a ghost of smile. He felt like he'd won a small victory, and it was nice to know he wasn't the only one that slept badly.

They worked quietly as America measured then dumped the ingredients in Russia's bowl. As he mixed, America started the element and the oven—one for frying the pancakes, the other for keeping them warm. Half an hour later, they each had a generous stack of fluffy, golden-brown goodness, drizzled in syrup and topped with fresh berries. They ate as quietly as they cooked, neither of them wanting to betray how surprised they were by how easy it turned out to be to just get along.

They were both still too proud to admit it. It didn't matter how much they both longed to be friends again, neither of them could admit defeat.

Rather than mope around the rest of the day, America went to his garage to fix up his T-Ford while Russia stayed inside, sitting in the living room and knitting.

America eventually came in for a snack, barely giving Russia a second thought. He heard a deep humming that he found surprisingly comforting and homely as he walked past the living room. He peeked in to find Russia peacefully sitting there, knitting and humming what he assumed to be a Russian song, since he didn't recognize it. A little embarrassed to be sneaking around his own house, he slipped away again. He was surprised. Seeing Russia in this light felt familiar and he felt embarrassed to realize that he actually kind of liked seeing this side of Russia.

When Russia smelt engine oil and musk, his concentration was broken. He stumbled in his hum and paused his needles when he looked up, wondering where that alluring smell came from. Disregarding it as his imagination, he went back to knitting his sweater, humming his favourite lullaby. He was distracted again when America walked past the doorway. He was dirty and oily in his black muscle shirt and jeans. Russia became flustered when he realized the smell that captivated him before came from America, and that he actually liked the look and smell of him in that moment. Long after America walked back out, Russia was still frozen in that sneaking fear that he actually liked seeing this side of America.


	5. The Failure

**December 2059**

The Nordics are standing just on the edge of the Russian occupied land that was once Finland's. He was returning from a scouting mission with vital information that he had memorized to use in his battle against Russia. It was with his memory and a little bit of sheer luck that Finland found the underground bunker they were using as a base. Soldiers were stationed at key locations, perfectly camouflaged in the snowy Finnish landscape, and every single one of them had their scopes pointed at the door Finland was now knocking on, waiting to see if he would use the correct knocking sequence. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges, revealing another Finnish soldier welcoming him in, recognizing him as the embodiment of the country he was so proud to defend and eventually win back. Once he was safely inside, the soldiers guarding the entrance turned their attention away, looking out into the cold landscape once again.

Finland made his way through the bunker without an escort. He designed this place and knew its layout better than anyone. He found his allies exactly where he expected them to be: in the training room, teaching Iceland anything they could properly and efficiently in the short amount of time they had. He walked into the high-vaulted room and gave them all an urgent hand motion, continuing on his way towards the strategy room a little ways more down the hall. The other four followed compliantly, eager to know what he'd learnt while he was out.

Sweden grabbed the nearest soldier he could find and ordered for food, coffee, and water be brought to the strategy room, knowing Finland would be in dire need of sustenance just like he always did when he went out on such mission for days at a time. He packed too lightly to eat properly, and his nerves made it impossible for him to get enough sleep during the mission.

All five were joined in the small room. Finland was already doubled over the map, marking it in blue ink before he forgot anything. He marked where the Russian camps and battlements were and all their weaknesses that he could find. They watched him patiently until he eventually stopped, unable to remember anything more that could be useful and collapsed in the nearest chair. He passed out almost instantly. Denmark carted him aside so the rest of them could take a look at the notes he left.

The four of them looked over the map. Iceland could hardly make heads or tails of it yet, but he was sure the other three would clue him in if they came up with something. Denmark was the first to stir any reaction, a plan already forming in his mind.

"Looks like Finland only went as far as Oulu," remarked Norway solemnly.

"We start with Pudasjärvi," threw in Denmark, a grin growing over his features.

The other three waited for him to continue. "Okay?" egged Norway.

From this point, Iceland disconnected from the conversation. He didn't even know where Pudasjärvi was, but he figured the other three would explain the plan to him if he asked nicely. Instead, he opened the door for the soldier that was bringing them food, water, and coffee and sat next to Finland. A creeping unease settled in Iceland's gut. As much as Finland needed sleep, he needed food even more. Settling for the lesser of two evils, Iceland nudged Finland awake, gently at first, but when the man wouldn't wake up, he started shoving.

Finland eventually groaned awake and stretched his sore limbs. He could just make out the other three through his dreary eyes, huddling and murmuring over the map he had marked. "Oh, good," he muttered sleepily.

"There's food here for you. You should eat something," said Iceland, a little tone of concern in his voice.

"Oh yeah, you're right," replied Finland. Instead of making him get up, Iceland simply wheeled his chair over to the food where he ate silently. Iceland wasn't listening to the attack plan that was forming but Finland clearly was.

"I'm going with you," he stated, determination etched into his features.

"No," retorted Sweden with finality.

"This is my country, and I'm going to fight for it!"

"You're tired and overworked," countered Sweden. "You're staying and training Iceland."

Iceland was uneasy at being thrown into this argument and shot an apologetic look over to Finland. The Finn sighed in frustration. There was no use butting heads, knowing Sweden could be the most persistent of them all. That didn't mean he wasn't going to huff about it. The last thing he wanted was to leave his country in another's hands, but they were tying his hands behind his back and using Iceland to do it.

That just wasn't fair.

Finland refused to talk to anyone but Iceland until they eventually left for their mission. If they were going to insist on handling everything as though they somehow knew better than him, then let them. If they were going to exclude him from matters that involved, well, _himself_, then let them. Once they fail, they'll come back to him apologizing and asking for his help, and when that time comes, he'll be happy to help them.

But not before then.

Until then, he'll do as he's told and stay behind, recuperating and training Iceland in the art of modern warfare. It was his opinion that modern warfare was best taught in the line of duty, but he knew better than to suggest it if Norway was involved.

Days turned to weeks before they returned, and when they did, they were one man short. Iceland will never forget the fear that gripped him, seeing Norway and Sweden in the distance, but Denmark's confident stride missing in their trio.

He panicked, wondering if Denmark was dead or captured, unable to figure out which alternative was worse. Maybe he just stayed behind to continue the mission, but Iceland doubted it. Norway would never have let him stay behind to fight alone. As it was, it looked as though Sweden was dragging him away from the front lines, away from Denmark, and the despairing look in Norway's eyes made Iceland fear for the worst.

None of them wanted to speak first, but surprisingly, it was the quiet Swede that spoke. "He's captured," he said grimly in answer to the question neither Finland or Iceland could bring themselves to ask.

Finland recovered quickly from the shock, finally taking matters into his own hands. Sweden and Norway looked like shit, covered in blood and mud, their uniforms turned to tatters. One of them looked like he'd stared down death and the other looked like he wanted to die. "Get inside," he ordered. "Clean up, eat, sleep. We're getting him back," he stated sternly with a coldness Iceland didn't recognize. _This wouldn't have happened if I'd been there_, Finland scolded himself, feeling foolish for letting them push him around into staying behind all those weeks ago.

Sweden didn't need to be told twice, hardly flinching at Finland's tone. As far as he knew, he deserved it. Norway was just an expressionless rag doll he dragged with him to the bunker.

The next day, they huddled again in the strategy room. Sweden gave them the details of what happened while Norway stared blankly into space. Finland was quick to come up with a plan. He wasn't going to let his friend rot in Russia's hands, and it was his determination that would propel them to act fast. The sooner they dragged Denmark out of hell, the better.

That night, Iceland was haunted by his brother's behaviour. Concern and fear drove him to Norway's bedroom door. He heard a muffled sound that he couldn't quite pinpoint. He didn't bother knocking before opening the door, finding him curled up under the covers, heaving with sobs. Iceland's heart broke realizing he hadn't recognized the muffled sounds because he'd never heard Norway cry before. Shutting the door behind him, he crawled into bed next to him. Norway shifted to face Iceland, somewhat ashamed of his little brother seeing him like this, but Iceland simply held his mourning brother close, stroking his hair and trying to whisper all the same comforting things Norway always whispered to him when he was scared. His voice cracked as his heart broke and they both cried into the night, too afraid of the future that awaited them.


	6. The Breaking Point

**A/N:** I updated the layout of the fic a bit... Sorry for the long wait.

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**April 4, 2060**

Months of preparations have passed, leading up to this moment—the time has finally come for them to reclaim Denmark from Russia.

Their group was small, just a cluster of the best Finnish, Swedish, and Norwegian soldiers they could spare as they crossed the tundra. Their scouts and spies sent out over the last few months informed them that Denmark was being held in a previously abandoned World War II Soviet concentration camp in eastern Siberia, so their small elite force had prepared themselves in accordance.

They were currently squatting in an underbrush nearest to the fence, the thin brambles and the night being the only things to hide them from guards. "Looks empty," remarked Sweden bitterly, getting increasingly more suspicious about the location. If this was an active prisoner camp, there would be soldiers and prisoners about, right?

"You telling me my spies aren't good enough?" snapped Norway. He had been on edge and moody ever since Denmark was taken and couldn't rest until he was back.

"No, Norge," assured Finland while Sweden shook his head in silent exasperation. "My scouts reported the same thing as yours. This is the place." Norway just humphed in reply.

"So why are we just sitting out here in the bush? Why aren't we going in?"

"We're just, I don't know, looking around? Making sure the coast is clear?" replied Finland.

While the two argued, Sweden walked over to the fence surrounding the camp. He had already observed no guards and although there was an electric line along the fence, there was no buzzing. The fence wasn't active. No one was coming out to shoot them out or shoo them away. The other two just watched him, a little dumbfounded by the boldness, until Sweden motioned for them to come over and stop hiding in bushes like lurking creeps. He didn't wait for them before climbing over the fence. Within minutes, they were all inside the camp with their weapons and packs without an alarm going off or guards to bother them.

Sweden groaned in displeasure. He didn't like the look of any of this.

"It really does look suspicious," agreed Finland.

Norway, encouraged by the lack of activity from their intrusion, cautiously moved forward towards the main building, the one they could only assume was the camp's headquarters. Their little group moved along, only growing more weary the longer it took to get any reaction from their trespass. After several minutes of nervous and guarded walking, an inhuman shriek ripped through the night, startling their group. They all stopped and waited for the eery, painful sound to stop, expecting something to jump out and attack them, and it took far too long for it to die down. And then the night was too silent again. Norway heard one of the guns rattling as the Norwegian holding it trembled with fear. They were all tempted to turn tail and run but the mission was far too important to give up. Norway was the first to shake off the startle and continue moving forward, since he was most determined to succeed this night. Now he was even more thankful that Iceland agreed to stay in their base.

They crept up to the windowless building, the sense of desertion permeating the air. They wondered how their spies ever thought that Denmark could be held here.

"Maybe he was relocated?" suggested Finland, in answer to what they were all asking themselves.

"Spies didn't report it," shrugged Sweden, going up to the front door of the building and smashing it in with the barrel of his gun, startling a woman walking by with a scream.

It only took a split-second for Norway to catch her, immediately silencing and trapping her to Finland's and Sweden's semi-surprise—more surprised by how efficient he was than anything else.

They froze, hearing another inhuman shriek like the last one reverberate through the building. Hearing it, Finland spun on the poor woman in his forced Russian, asking what that was and where their friend is. The woman frantically shook her head, clearly on the verge of tears, so Finland softened his tone, but Norway refused to go easy on her, not if it meant it could bring him closer to Denmark. The Finn still tried to coax the woman into talking and she eventually stammered something out.

"He's here," he said briefly, not elaborating on the rest of her jumbled dialogue.

That was all the information Norway cared for. He slammed the butt of his rifle at the back of her head, knocking her out and hid her body under a nearby desk—they didn't need her running around in hysterics and alarming any soldiers. The less bloodshed, the better. But when the nations had turned their backs and walked in the direction the woman gave, one of their men stood back and discreetly put an end to her panic with a silenced gun—a clean shot to her heart.

They quietly, silently, walked down the winding halls. There were doors all along the walls, but they ignored those in favour of trying to find the basement, where the woman said was the only place she wasn't allowed to enter, and therefore, the only place she couldn't have seen him. They caught site of a door marked "ограниченный"—"restricted," Finland informed. It was the only door locked with a keypad.

"The fact that that woman is the only person we encountered so far in this huge building is making me really nervous," confessed Finland.

Sweden hummed in agreement, making a mental note of the restricted area and moving on to investigate more of the building.

"Where are you going?" spat Norway, unwilling to just drop this lead because of a little setback and anxiety.

"Finding a slavic," he reasoned in his monotonous way. "One of'em gonna have the code to the door."

"Right, let's split up," suggested Finland.

"That's a horrible idea!" protested Norway.

Finland shrugged. "It's what my scouts do, and they always come back just fine."

"Then send your scouts, we stick together. We need to find Denmark before they do any serious harm to him," argued Norway, causing the other two to sigh. They wanted to bring Denmark home as much as Norway, but Norway for some reason, was letting his emotions overrule him for once. Damn inconvenient time for that to happen.

Nonetheless, Finland wordlessly motioned for his men to move forward, splitting into different directions.

"He's through here, I can tell," persisted Norway.

"He might be, he might not," reasoned Finland.

"Why are you saying that?!" exclaimed Norway. "It's like you don't even care!"

"You're being stupid, that's why," stated Sweden bluntly. "We'll get him, Nor. Shut up, and get your head out'a yer ass."

Sweden's tactless reply caused Norway to bristle defensively. Before he could make a retort, an alarm sounded across the building, startling them out of the argument.

No longer caring for discretion, Finland slammed the butt of his gun into the keypad and shot at the knob before slamming his shoulder in to swing it open. Motioning for them to file through. His scouts must have alerted the Soviets that they were here. Norway was the first to bolt in, Sweden following close behind. Unlike above ground, the restricted area was full of armed men, and they did not hold back their guns, being mindful of their bullets so they wouldn't waste them. Norway, always as lithe as ever, was the first to make it to the other side, unscathed, as bullets rang around him from either side, soviet blood spilling, staining the concrete deep red. The rest followed when the carnage was over, the alarm ringing loud in their ears and ignoring the fresh stains on the soles of their boots as they unceremoniously walked across the large, laboratory-like room. Within seconds, more armed men appeared, and hundreds of unused and newly ownerless guns littered the floor for the Scandinavians to use at their leisure as they gunned down this new legion with the other, letting Norway secretly investigate the rooms one-by-one in hopes of finding his best friend and lover.

When Norway finally found him, all his senses went numb and he almost crumbled in despair from his heart breaking all over again. Of course, he knew Denmark would be treated badly locked up out here, but he had no idea they could be this cruel, in this day and age. It was purely barbaric, seeing his wrists chained together and hanging from the ceiling, his wrists obviously dislocated from the weight of his muscular body he took such pains to keep fit dragging him down. Not an inch of his skin wasn't covered in lacerations, crusted blood, or bruises that clearly showed signs that he'd been beaten to the point of breaking every bone he had. They shattered him.

Denmark's head didn't perk up, his lips didn't smile. His face was distorted with pain and misery. It was such a foreign expression for Denmark and Norway hated the sight of him. He wanted to vomit—he did vomit, doubling over and falling to his knees. It was when his nausea started to pass several minutes later that he realized his senses had come back to him and the gunshots had stopped. Sweden and Finland had found him and both stood in the same shock that Norway felt not too long ago.

Finland was the first to gather his senses, walking over to check Denmark's vitals and finding a very weak heartbeat. Pushing back their despair, they silently went about searching every drawer and every dead body for the key to unchain him. They carefully wrapped his body in lab coats and parkas, letting Sweden carry him as they wordlessly left.

Once outside in the brisk cold again, Finland was the first to speak, giving an order to pillage the entire perimeter and blow this hellhole out of existence. He was making a statement-a declaration of war against the Russian Federation.

Arriving at their base after a long trek in armoured jeeps, they were extra careful to hide him from any and all prying eyes, giving him a private room in the medical ward. Although none of them spoke, they all were resolved that, at all costs, Iceland can never know about Denmark's condition. He was forbidden to see or speak to him, and when Norway wallowed in despair every time he asked, Iceland eventually stopped insisting on seeing him, knowing they couldn't hide Denmark from him forever.

This was a turning point for the Nordics. Disgusted by what they had witnessed, they had finally decided that they couldn't stand by idly while the Russo-American War destroyed them. They were invested; for the first time in centuries, they were at war.


	7. The Election

**Fall of 2075**

There just wasn't any getting along with him. Alfred has tried over and over again, but Ivan can be so stubborn—like a goddamn mountain. Or a goat. A mountain goat.

The elections were coming up and Alfred was getting ready to panic. He was completely unable to gain any footing in Russian politics and the Russians hated him. He tried earning their trust, tried gaining their loyalty, but they always either ignored or mocked his efforts. He wanted to win them over so an American could be elected in their first elections but Russia and his people were resilient against him. It was the only reason they failed to merge their governments up until now. He was still shocked Ivan even agreed to hold an election at all, after 5 years of Alfred's persistence. It must have been because of the last meeting they had with the G8 nations… They gave them an ultimatum: get along or be taken over by the United Nations—something America and Russia equally dreaded (although Alfred suspected he would hate it more than Ivan).

_If I don't win this election, then Ivan will destroy me_, feared Alfred, fidgeting anxiously in his seat while his President, given a special permission to have remained in office without an election despite his term ending, was on the phone with the Russian President, given the same undemocratic exception due to their circumstances. They were arguing. Alfred hated the sound of it.

Of course he wanted to get along with the Russian people. He wanted to compromise, but nothing he ever brought forward was good enough for Ivan and his president. In any case, all Alfred wanted was to protect himself, which he knew he wouldn't be able to do if Ivan's president won the election, and unfortunately, Russians outnumbered Americans since the war.

"You look like you just witnessed a senseless murder," pointed out Ivan, startling Alfred where he sat.

"Close enough," snapped back Alfred once he recovered. He feared exactly that would happen if Russia won this election. He didn't want to let Russia know how scared he truly was.

Russia calmly took the seat next to his husband. It still seemed so strange that he had one at all. "Do you really think they can overtake us if we don't sort this out?" he asked him.

"I think they'd try, and I don't want to give them the chance to," mumbled Alfred. He fought hard for his independence and there was no way he was going to give England the satisfaction of taking it away from him the way again.

Ivan nodded in understanding, and sat quietly with his eyes cast to his hands in his lap. Although he appeared carefree, he was attentively listening to the argument bursting from inside the office between their leaders. "I don't want to let them either," he smiled sweetly, a plan slowly forming in his mind.

"They argue like they're the ones that are married," said Alfred with an awkward chuckle.

"And yet they are not," reminded Ivan.

"Thanks, bud," replied Alfred with a roll of his eyes. "There must've been a reason why Poland made us _marry_ of all things," he mumbled.

"I wouldn't put too much credit in Poland's ability to think for himself," said Russia.

"Oh, yes. It was his inability to think for himself that beat the crap out of you," scoffed Alfred.

"Don't start," warned Ivan, anger bubbling again. Alfred inched away slightly.

"Well, letting them argue for hours again won't fix anything," frowned Alfred, raising from his seat and walking towards the ornate double-doors before Russia reached out to hold him back by the wrist.

"I have an idea," he stated calmly, although his nerves were fraught. "Actually, it was Italy's idea, but I don't see why it can't work."

"Oh?" asked Alfred, turning towards Ivan. "What is it?"

"Do you remember the Roman Empire and its numerous leadership states?" asked Ivan, his smirk turning into a hopeful grin.

* * *

When the Roman Empire became a Republic, they began to elect two consuls every year to lead their nation. Two men were held as equals holding the highest rank in the Republic. Russia and America hoped to duplicate this government in a dual leadership, now that they held such a vast amount of land between the two and even more vast cultures within it and having a single leader rule both had already been established as impossible.

"So you see, we don't even need to hold elections against each other," exclaimed Alfred to their presidents, excited by the idea. "The United States hold their own election and the Russian Federation hold theirs, and the two leaders work together!"

"So long as the Russian president only minds his Russian populace and the American president minds his own as well," added Ivan, since this was the only way this government could be viable.

"_Legally_, we'll be sharing a government so the United Nations can get off our backs, but _in reality_, we're each managing our own countries again!" exclaimed Alfred. "Problem solved!"

The two leaders gave each other a glance.

"Our systems will have to be identical, or they'll suspect something," said the Russian president.

"It shouldn't be so bad. A new election every 5 years," shrugged the American.

"But only a single party each," requested the Russian, knowing this would not sit well with the Americans with their split parties and inability to agree on values.

The American president grimaced at the thought. "I don't see how that's ne—"

"Yes, it is," interjected Alfred. "If we want the United Nations to believe we're working together, then continuing as we are will raise suspicion. Besides, it's what Washington wanted from the start," he defended.

The American silently fumed. "All right, 5 year terms with only a single party per nation," he agreed, rising to shake the Russian president's hand. "And what if one of us doesn't follow the rules?" he asked haughtily.

"Then I suppose one of us will be overturned and replaced with our ally nation's runner-up," frowned the Russian.

The two nations held their breath. This was a serious repercussion in their eyes, to just hand over full control of the dual leadership to one nation if foul play is discovered. They would have to be extra careful.

"Fine," sighed the American, finally giving the Russian's hand a shake. "Where do we sign?"


	8. The Decision

**A/N:** Butter Lord, if by "the real thing" you mean a relationship? Then yes. Finland and Iceland will develop a romantic connection at some point in the fic, but this will be later on.

And while I'm here, I'll take a minute to thank all of you that left reviews~ It's part of what keeps me going :)

* * *

**April 10, 2060**

Sweden has been storming around since Denmark's return, pacing and fuming silently. He wants to go to war. Iceland has been avoiding him, afraid of him since he'd never seen Sweden behave like this before. He reminded him of a rabid lion pacing in a too-small cage. His anger was contagious too, filling the atmosphere around him in molten fury, enveloping everyone in a palpable need for revenge and violence that lay dormant for far too long. He was an explosion roiling under the surface.

This is why they came to the decision to declare war on Russia. For the first time in centuries, Scandinavia was preparing for battle, driven by their unity and loyalty they've since grown together.

Finland can't cope with Sweden's sudden expressive mood. Of course he was angry too, but he knew they were not prepared for a world war between Russia and America. He felt it was a lost cause and that made him angrier.

Norway became passive since Denmark's return. He never left his bedside—or his bed. But if you stood in the room long enough, Norway's resentment and anger would eventually flit through, filling the air with a suffocating need for violence similar to Sweden's. Denmark seemed to enjoy the attention since Norway hadn't been this nice to him since 1524.

And while the rest of the Nordics felt vindictive anger, Iceland was just scared. Unlike them, he had no fighting experience. Norge and Dan always did the fighting for him—they sheltered him. He never had to fight for his independence. However he didn't want to be babied through another war and be a burden on them again. He wanted to be able to defend himself and them as well… He wanted the sort of companionship they shared but that he couldn't take part in.

There wouldn't be any time for him to learn, anymore.

He didn't like the decision they made at all.

"Something bothering you?" Finland asked him. He'd noticed Iceland pouting into space across the table for a while now and he had a feeling it wasn't just about Denmark's torture. "I know Sve can be really scary these days, but he would never hurt any of us."

"I'm not afraid of him," mumbled Iceland. Well, he was, but he knew it wasn't directed at or because of him. He already knew Sweden wouldn't take his anger out on them.

"Then what's wrong?" persisted Finland.

Iceland sighed, chewing the inside of his cheek as he considered how to express himself. "You guys excluded me," he murmured bitterly.

Finland's brow creased with guilt. "It's a sensitive issue," he reasoned. "We didn't think you'd provide much input since you don't actually have any experience in warfare. Besides, y—"

"Isn't that the problem?" snapped Iceland. "How am I supposed to gain experience if you guys keep excluding me!"

"And _besides_, your economy as it is right now doesn't make it possible for you to contribute without crippling yourself," continued Finland.

"I still think I should've been consulted," grumbled Iceland.

Finland took a deep breath, calming his own anger. The last thing he wanted was to take it out on Iceland when they were all so temperamental. It wouldn't be deserved. "I know," he said quietly, calmly. "I didn't think excluding you from the meeting as a good idea either, but Norge and Dan insisted you shouldn't be a part of it. You know how they get when it comes to you."

Iceland scoffed, looking away. "Might as well be telling me I'm not a Nordic anymore," he murmured. He regretted it as soon as he said it.

"That's not true," frowned Finland. "We're just trying to protect you, Emil."

Iceland grunted, crossing his arms and staring at the wall a little too strongly as a flurry of emotions bubbled under the surface while he struggled to keep them in. Finland sighed and dropped the financial statements he'd been revising to sit next to the younger blond and wrap an arm around him. Iceland responded by leaning his head against Finland's chest, his scowl melting into a frown. This was slowly becoming his favourite way to relax when the world gets overwhelming.

"I'm scared," he finally confessed.

Finland rubbed his back soothingly. "We all are," he admitted. None of them were really prepared or equipped for the war they were about to join. They all knew it. "But Denmark thinks it's time," he said, his voiced weighed with more sadness than intended.

"Time for what?" asked Iceland, confused.

"I guess we'll see when it happens," shrugged Finland. It clearly meant something to Norway and Sweden, who both agreed with Denmark.

Finland decided to trust them.

* * *

**A/N: ** I would also like to say that I'm going to try to go back to posting one chapter per week :)


	9. Revenge

**July 7, 2061— Revenge**

"Again," ordered Denmark.

Iceland rolled off the ground with his rifle safely in hand and ran the obstacle course they'd set up all over again. He ran around the various posts that blocked his path, jumped over trenches and holes, evaded swinging "missiles" that could easily give a normal human a concussion if they hit. This time, he slipped in the soft, overturned mud and fell forward, his face burying itself in the earth with his rifle digging in across his chest.

"Get up!" ordered Denmark, safely sitting in his wheelchair on the sidelines. He was honestly disappointed to skip the viking-era training with Iceland, but they all agreed that modern warfare would be most important for him to train in given the circumstances. Seeing his little protégé get knocked over the head by a flying sack of potatoes might've been more entertaining, but modern warfare didn't have the artistry and skill needed in traditional warfare. He grinned trying to picture Iceland lifting a heavy battle axe and trying to swing it into a tree without throwing himself to the ground with the momentum.

The empty rifle he was carrying now was a pale comparison when it came to weight—or elegance.

"Again," he ordered, picking at the hem of the blanket draped over his legs. Iceland couldn't see how agitated Denmark looked and Denmark liked it better that way. He hated showing weakness in front of him.

Iceland groaned as he forced himself back up and continued to run the obstacle course. They've been doing the same monotonous exercise for over an hour and his legs were starting to feel wobbly. He had to slow down because he kept slipping in the mud. The rifle and his legs were so heavy, he felt sluggish, and wanted nothing more than to slip to the ground and sleep.

Iceland knew his training was just a tactic to keep him and Denmark occupied. Iceland was itching to help, and Denmark couldn't stand his immobility. It was a conveniently productive distraction for both of them while the other three went off God knew where. At least, Iceland didn't know where but Denmark obviously did. They had been gone for weeks, so Iceland only assumed they were on a mission of some sort and left the two of them behind.

Distracted by his own thoughts, Iceland slipped and fell forward again, this time falling into a post from which a bag of potatoes was being swung around like a oversized, edible tetherball. Iceland groaned as his face slumped against the metal post. He dropped his rifle, deciding that he'd thoroughly had enough and would refuse to budge. Denmark was in a wheelchair anyway and couldn't do fuck all. What's the worst he could do? Shoot him? Iceland scoffed at the thought.

Denmark could see Iceland's resignation. He sighed, knowing that that was more than enough for today. "Fine. Would you at least get up and get out of the field?" called Denmark, wheeling himself down the path that circled the obstacle course towards a line of different rifles he'd had set up on a table. Satisfied that training was over, Iceland went to join him with mud still caking his uniform and rifle. "I want you to go down the line, starting with the rifle in your hands. You're gonna take apart and clean every single one of them as fast and efficiently as you can. Starting now," he instructed, turning on the stopwatch and setting it down.

Surprised by the sudden command, Iceland quickly took off his gloves to start. "Hey, where are you going?" he asked, noticing Denmark wheeling himself away already.

"Gonna get you some food so you don't pass out. Won't be long," he assured him, heading towards the cabin where they'd been staying while the others were away on their mission.

Iceland let him go. It bothered him how Denmark seemed to avoid looking at him, so he knew something was bothering him too. But since no one was talking to him, there was no way for him to know. While Iceland worked on the rifles, sitting at the table, he thought back to all the recent events he'd been hearing from the war. It felt so far away to him, if only they weren't directly involved now.

"It's not fair," he mumbled under his breath, dismantling and cleaning the rifles in front of him one by one, methodically. They were his family and they refused to include him. It stung.

He couldn't even imagine how Denmark must be feeling. Iceland knew the older nation was trying hard to keep a brave face in front of him, but the man was battered and broken, unable to fight for himself at this point. Sure, he still joked with him, but the longer the others were away, the more Denmark's composure cracked. At first, Iceland thought he was fine, but now he was beginning to realize that Denmark had been pretending all along. This stung him even more. Putting himself in Denmark's shoes, Iceland wanted to break down.

But he couldn't. They couldn't.

He had to look strong for Denmark's sake, just as he knew Denmark was doing for him.

He had to compose himself, deciding to keep his mind blank as he worked on the various guns in front of him.

"They won," announced Denmark, his voice low and almost indifferent sounding. Hearing him so close started Iceland, causing him to drop the gun.

"Don't sneak up on me," he snapped, picking it up.

"Sorry. Just thought you'd want to know," shrugged Denmark.

"What d'you mean they won?" asked Iceland.

"Finland's territory. They reconquered it from Russia. They're coming home," explained Denmark. Iceland could've sworn he heard a crack in his voice when he said "home".

"Dan…" Iceland didn't even want to finish saying it. He got up on wobbly legs and stumbled towards Denmark, wrapping his arms around his neck in a suffocating hug.

"Things will get better now," said Denmark, but the words sounded like a lie to Iceland's ears. He accepted them anyway. He got into Denmark's lap to bury his face in his chest and started crying. He didn't know why. His heart felt heavy from Denmark's melancholy and fear for Finland gripped him, tightening his chest unbearably.

Denmark took a deep breath to compose himself, softly running a hand through Iceland's hair. He didn't know how much longer he could pretend, but for Iceland's sake, everything will be okay.

* * *

Russia's base in Kiev was in a flurry. He didn't know how this happened, why it happened, all he knew was that his boss was furious and the people were in uproar.

Conquering Finland's territory had been a mild success, but losing it again was a huge failure on their part. They should have been prepared for this and yet they thought the Nordics would have minded their own business as they had done in the previous two world wars.

The President of the Russian Federation was absolutely furious and Russia was terrifying of what he would do when he goes in to "talk" about it.

"They're dead!" shouted the old Russian, which was a welcomed change from the string of profanities he'd been screaming previously. "They're all fucking dead and all of Scandinavia will go down with them!" he swore.

"Sir, you can't do that," said Russia, hoping to reason with him and resisting the urge to cower from him.

"And why not?" he shouted. "What the hell makes you think I won't kill you too first chance I get!?"

Now Russia did cower, feeling himself shrink. Even though he was a nation, representative of hundreds of millions of people that bore his nationality, he was afraid of the tyrant that they chose, that they voted into his government.

"The Nordic nations want to declare war on Russia—on _me_—then let them! I'll kill them!" shouted the President. "Starting with that weak moron they call a _king_," he then spat, storming past Russia and out of his office to bark nonsense orders and vent his anger.

Russia shuddered with guilt. Denmark's injuries were his fault. On any other day, Russia might have warned him about his boss's tantrum, but today? He feared for his own life just as much.

He would trust that the Nordics, the most socially advanced nations in the developed world, could take care of themselves.


	10. Confessions

**June, 2099 - Confessions**

"I can't believe you call this a game," mumbled England as America managed to putt his fourth hole-in-one in a row at Captain Salisbury's Mini-Golf Emporium.

"It's not just a _game_," retorted America, walking down the green to collect his neon orange ball from the hole. "It's a _sport_."

England rolled his eyes. He got up to the starting point to putt his blue ball, managing to get it to the far end of the fourth hole. America sat on the fake rock ledge that enclosed it.

"I'm starting to think you just like starting at my ass," England said sarcastically.

America scoffed, his phone starting to ring. "You wish your butt was that cute," he mocked before answering the phone. "Y'ello… Oh, hey Lithuania!"

England tuned him out as he continued to putt. He positioned himself and gave the ball a light tap, only to watch it dance along the rim of the hole and continue several inches over a hill and into a trench on the other side. He let out a long sigh.

"Sure, sounds great! I'd love to have you guys over."

England walked over to the trench, giving the ball another tap up the hill, only for it to roll back down to bounce off the wall. He groaned.

"Yeah, I understand… I'll make sure Russia isn't there."

In his frustration, England slammed his putter into the ball hard enough for it to fly over the trench and off the course. "Fuck it," he snapped, tossing his putter over his shoulder and walking off.

"You give up a lot more easily than I remember," remarked America. "Oh! Sorry, I don't mean you, Liet."

"Shut up," said England as walked away to get his ball back.

"So, hey, I guess I'll see you guys next week? Cool! See you then!" America hung up and slipped his phone back in his pocket.

"Trouble in paradise?" mocked England.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean," retorted America, brows furrowed in a way that showed he knew exactly what England meant.

"Just that you're obviously having a housewarming without you _darling_ husband," he said, pronouncing "darling" with a long, sarcastic drawl.

"Shut up," frowned America, walking away from him to the next hole.

England was honestly baffled by America's outburst. "And _you_ seem to lose your temper more easily than I remember," he remarked.

"Is that any of your business?" snapped America, England's sympathetic tone somehow irritating him more than it normally would.

"Yes? You're still my little brother,"

America groaned loudly at hearing _that_ old argument being dusted off and brought back to life. He could almost hear a dazzling _ta-dah!_ in the process. "You're _still_ hung up over that," he said.

England gave him a sobering glance. "Not at all, but it was a turning point in our history."

America sighed. He sat down at one of the many park benches around, sulking. England didn't know what else to do, so he sat next to him, remaining quiet until America's mood would pass.

"You know… sometimes I regret winning," America quietly confessed. England was speechless at the sudden revelation. "But it doesn't matter anymore," he soon added with a certain amount of determination that England knew was forced. America's blunt honesty shocked him and he didn't know what to make of this newfound information so freely given.

Where did it even come from?

When America decided his melancholy had passed, he got up and continued their game. England followed suit, still unsure how to react, and within half an hour of silent, mechanical mini-putting, they were done.

Still unsure how to react, England gave America a hug before parting ways. Neither of them spoke another word that day since America's confession.

* * *

_A little less than two weeks later_

When Russia got off the plane, he felt anxious to get to America's place but when he got in the cab, he just felt disappointed. America would have normally picked him up and driven him home to save the cash, but this wasn't a normal circumstance.

He'd gone back home to visit his sisters. He found it unusual how America insisted he go on such short notice, but he didn't think anything of it and arranged the trip anyway. He hoped to try reestablishing diplomatic relations with the Baltic nations while he was there and America was not; to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. But Lithuania, Estonia, and Latvia weren't home, they weren't returning his calls… even Poland wasn't home. When he asked Belarus if she knew where they went, she mockingly told him they had a date with America and that he wasn't invited.

It was one thing that she said this with obvious jealousy, but another altogether that she didn't take it seriously. Of course, he didn't know at the time that it was jealousy he felt. He called it anger and resentment. No, he was furious that America arranged this behind his back! He's had lots of time to think about how he felt on the plane. He felt guilty for getting possessive of the Baltics. He'd been told countless times by America that they were independent from him and that they didn't need him; they were _free_ of him. They wanted Russia to leave them alone indefinitely and Russia had a hard time accepting that for a very long time.

But that wasn't what was bothering him, he realized. It was the _way_ Belarus had told him: they had a date with America and he wasn't welcome. He realized it was the thought of America dating anyone that angered him. Of course, it hurt all the more that it was the Baltics he was spending time with without him, and worse that they arranged it secretly, but what really bothered him was someone else getting to spend time with America when it was Russia's _right_ to have him. They Baltics may not belong to him anymore, but America certainly did! And the longer he thought about it, the more he felt resolute over it and the more he had a bone to pick with America.

The cab finally pulled up in front of America's manor home. Russia's heart was beating fast, working up the courage to confront America in this time of delicate peace between them. He was reluctant to dive back into petty quarrels and the only thing strengthening his resolve was knowing America most definitely started this one, and Russia was getting more and more determined to pursue it.

The Jeep was missing, so Russia wasn't surprised to see the house was empty. Biding his time, he unpacked and went about his day as though he never left in the first place.

* * *

Once Lithuania, Estonia, and Latvia were each on board their flights, America finally returned Belarus' call, a small part of him worrying something might have happened to Russia. The last thing he expected to learn was that Russia was already back and that he was royally pissed—her words. America tried not to speed home, but he didn't want Russia's bad mood to fester… his temper is wretched and he learned to avoid it over the years.

There was a mixture of relief and fear as he parked the jeep in its usual spot. He hummed to _Can't Stop the Feeling_ to steady his heart rate, walking up the porch and into his house. He didn't think to ask Belarus _why_ her brother was angry and he tried to think of what it might be this time, coming up blank. Everything has been so smoothed between them recently.

He could smell potato pancakes frying in the kitchen so he stopped at the entrance.

"Had a good trip?" he asked conversationally, leaning against the door frame.

"Hm," replied Russia without looking up from the frying pan.

_Uh oh_, thought America. "You sound like there's something bothering you."

"M-hm." Russia had already exhausted himself over it.

"Wanna talk about it?"

Russia turned off the element, letting the patties sizzle on their own. "You wanted me to visit my sisters so you could meet Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia in secret," he stated bluntly, his tone sounding cheerful.

But America knew better. "Who told you that?"

"Belarus." Russia started placing the patties on a plate. "Actually, she told me you had a 'date' with them," he added, his tone turning cold.

"Well, I wouldn't call it a _date_, but we hung out," murmured America. "Look, Ivan, I didn't like keeping it a secret from you, but they wanted me to because… well, you know," he tried to explain.

"No, I don't know."

"Because you get possessive!"

"I don't care about them," said Russia, turning to face America and offering him a patty. America surprised himself wondering if they were poisoned—something he hadn't worried about for years—but mumbled a thanks as he took one, starting to nibble on it.

"Then why're you angry?" America asked.

"Because you lied to me."

"I didn't _lie_ to you. I suggested you visit your sister and you did," he said defensively.

"I don't want you doing things behind my back like that."

"Too bad, Russia! 'Cause I'm gonna anyway," replied America crossly, losing his temper with him. "What the hell is up with you?"

"I don't… I don't like you hanging out with others without me," whined Russia, knowing how childish he sounded but unable to stop himself.

America was dumbfounded. "You mean to tell me you got _jealous_?"

"Y-yes," Russia stammered shyly, avoiding his eyes now. He felt like he was confessing more than just a petty jealousy.

America's jaw clenched. To him, this meant Russia considered him one of his subordinates, and this infuriated him. "I don't belong to you, Russia."

"Don't you—?"

"No! And you should keep in mind what happened last time someone thought he could claim ownership over me like a fucking pet," he spat, walking out.

Russia stood alone in the kitchen, baffled and confused. He wondered over America's reaction, especially since he hadn't actually done anything except admit he was jealous.

He sadly figured that this time, the thought counted more than enough.


	11. The Turning Point

**October 2062 — The Turning Point**

Russia was absolutely furious at the President, but short of starting a revolution, there was nothing he could do. He couldn't believe the old man sat him down in his office with guards at the door just to ask him how to _kill_ a nation. Not only did Russia feel threatened right now, he was insulted his people's chosen leader would dare play God like this.

"The Scandinavians have been a pain in my ass since they joined the war," grumbled the Russian President. "They manage more than well enough in our climate and for nations that have been peacekeepers for centuries, they've mastered guerilla warfare alarmingly fast in the past year. We need to find a way to dispose of them."

"No," said Russia curtly as he had been doing since the start of this stupid conversation, his hands gripping the armrests far too tightly.. "Not like that."

"Stop being a brat!"

"No," replied Russia between gritting teeth, his eye twitching from the sheer anger he tried so hard not to take out on his leader.

"We need to get rid of them," said the President, his expression stern. "And if you won't cooperate, then I'm just not going to let you be a part of it."

Russia frowned. "You can't do that."

"Why? Is there some magic bullshit that means only a nation can kill another nation?"

Russia narrowed his eyes. "Yes."

"You're lying," scoffed the President. "You're _off_ this mission, Russia. I'm going to give it to someone I can actually _trust_ to do their job."

Russia scowled, feeling like he'd been slapped in the face. He was excused from the office, leaving dents in the wooden arm rests of the chair he sat in. He agreed that the Nordics needed to be dealt with. He wanted to hurt them, _maim_ them, but he didn't want them to die. They'd be completely useless to him dead. He wasn't heartless.

Russia bitterly thought to himself that it might be time for him to orchestrate an assassination.

* * *

_A few days later..._

Iceland crashed down in bed, laying on his stomach. He was trying to relax while his body ached all over. Even though his trainers were all in their own countries, his training barely let up. . Iceland was home too, doing his best to keep up the routine they'd drilled into him and to catch up with his president after being gone for so long.

He was finally starting to ease down, his breathing deepening and his eyes closing. He concentrated on his breathing and the birds chirping outside his window. He couldn't remember the last time he took a moment to take in his surrounding nature like this. It was something his brother used to pressure him into doing and he regrettably only did so when Norway was around to get to him to stop nagging.

Now Norway was too busy to breathe it in and Iceland could tell he missed it last time he saw him.

Iceland was drifting at the edge of sleep, feeling relaxed for once instead of endless worry since the war began, when he felt a tremor. He sat up, rubbing his chest from a sudden feeling like heart burn. The windows and knick knacks in his room rattled. A volcano? He got up on wobbly legs and looked out the window, but found no smoke. So it wasn't a volcano, and no earthquake would take so long to subside.

Not five minutes after it was over, Iceland's phone rang—it was his president.

"Hello?"

"We're evacuating Reykjavik," his boss curtly replied. "Meet me at Alþingi _right now_. A helicopter will take us out into the mountains."

"What?" exclaimed Iceland.

"I said we're evacuating," snapped the president before abruptly hanging up on him.

Iceland took a moment to let this sink in before jumping into action. He grabbed a change of clothes that he stuffed into a backpack and ran out the door towards the parliament building where his president was waiting for him.

Iceland hardly had time to ask him what was going on when he was pulled into the helicopter and they flew up in the air.

"Are we evacuating because of that weird earthquake?" asked Iceland, yelling over the sound of the blades over their heads.

His president shook her head. "It wasn't an earthquake," she replied, pointing with her chin out the window. Iceland followed her gaze and saw a cloud of smoke billowing up over and spreading out from somewhere in mainland Europe. "Russia must've dropped a bomb over Stockholm," she eventually told him.

Iceland was stunned. "I need to go there!" he shouted.

"No, you're staying with me and your people," said the president, just as he heard a dull boom in the distance. Iceland swung his head to glance over, seeing a fresh plume of smoke slowly billowing up somewhere a little farther south from Stockholm.

"What's happening?" cried Iceland.

The President of Iceland didn't know what to tell him, so she let him process this. He understood why they were evacuating Reykjavik.

Iceland was trembling by the time they stopped and disembarked somewhere in Reykhólar. Iceland called Sweden as soon as they hit land, but he wasn't answering. He barely processed the third tremor while he was calling Denmark and still, nothing. Iceland was panicking by the time he called Norway to no response, and Finland with the same result.

His boss was also getting incessant calls. "Looks like Russia dropped nuclear warheads over Stockholm, Copenhagen, Oslo, and Helsinki," she frowned. "Have you been able to reach any of them?"

"No," sobbed Iceland. "No, this can't be happening, _why would he do this?!_" he shrieked, throwing his phone against the rocks, causing it to smash into pieces.

"Iceland, please," murmured the president. "I'm trying, I really am! Maybe they weren't in their capitals and maybe they'll be okay!"

Iceland was hyperventilating, unable to control himself now. He was so angry and bitter, he wanted to hurt Russia so fucking much and—**_boom_**—he felt Langjökull erupt in the east, lava and smoke going up in the air. Finally, he was able to breathe again, trying to steady his heart rate.

"Did you do that?" asked the president, a slightly scolding tone in her voice.

"Never mind that, let's just try to find my friends!"

She sighed and went back to her phone calls. Iceland stood on the edge of the ocean, looking out and rubbing the cold out of his arms. Slowly, he was going numb. _He'll pay for this_, he kept thinking over and over again. _I won't stop until he pays_.

"Iceland," called the president. "I was able to contact Finland's leader. He was in America and was not killed in the explosion. He's feeling ill, though…"

Tears welled in Iceland's eyes. This was good news, he knew, but it didn't make the ache in his chest any easier to bear.

* * *

Just two days later, Iceland joined Finland in Washington. They were unable to find the other three, and this weighed heavily on their hearts.

"Iceland," exclaimed Finland, overwhelming happy to see the younger nation safe and sound.

"Finland," cried Iceland, running up to him for a light hug, knowing he was not well now. "Finland, how could he?"

"I don't know," murmured Finland. "But he'll pay," he promised.


	12. The Viking Way

**December 1, 2062**

Iceland was proud of the funeral they held. He missed the old viking ways as much as they did, and although times have changed drastically since then, it seemed appropriate to hold one last traditional funeral for their fallen brothers. Even though the funeral they held was over an hour ago, Iceland was still shivering under the heap of blankets Finland put on him. He was firmly holding his mug of hot chocolate, staring into the brown liquid and having difficulty swallowing it past the lump in his throat.

"Why did they die so easily?" murmured Iceland, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I think it was a combination of how weak they already were from the war and their capitals and most of their populations getting wiped out," replied Finland, sitting next to Iceland on the couch with his own mug of strong coffee. "Ice, they knew they weren't going to survive this war."

"Then why the hell did they join it?" growled Iceland.

"Because they were tired," sighed Finland. "I am too. We've been doing this for too long."

"You would've died too, if you were home like you were supposed to." Although Iceland sounded accusing when he said this, he was relieved to not be left alone.

"Because Nor, Dan, and Sve are stubborn and I wanted us to ally with America so we could actually have a chance of surviving," explained Finland. "But their deaths were premature… Because of _him_." Finland had refused to say Russia's name since the bombings.

"Don't you think we should try contacting the rebels that killed his president?" thought Iceland. "I mean… We've been using guerilla warfare all this time, why not use rebel Russians to kill Russian soldiers?"

"I've already thought about it. I didn't find the group that assassinated the president," murmured Finland. "There were lots of rebel groups, but all of them claimed they did it. So there's no way to narrow down who's telling the truth without wasting what little resources we have on an investigation."

Iceland groaned in frustration. The two of them sat quietly in front of the fire Finland started.

"Why do you think he left my home alone?" he wondered quietly. He figured he already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from Finland.

"I guess the Russians don't think you're a threat," murmured Finland. "But they're wrong. Especially now. They may have destroyed their capitals, but they still have people in their nations and resources in their lands, and those people need guidance. I know your president has already started taking care of them." He paused to wrap himself under Iceland's blankets to be closer. "By killing our family, they've made you triple in size and strength. I have a feeling you'll be the turning point of the war."

"How can I possibly change the course of the war when I just feel like a failure," grumbled Iceland.

"Don't," frowned Finland. "You still have me…"

Iceland glanced up at Finland with sadness in his eyes. "Thank you," he murmured with all the sincerity he could muster through his grief.

Finland smiled and it warmed Iceland's heart. "Now that we've had the funeral and put them to rest, America wants us to meet. Come with me," offered Finland. "We can join forces with him. Because I don't want to survive without you…"

Iceland felt heat rise in his cheeks at that sudden confession. "I'd be lost if you had died too…"

"And now it's just the two of us in this great, big, violent world. We're better than _him_," said Finland. "We'll move to America and he'll protect all our lands. _All of them_."

Iceland felt at least a little relief knowing that what was left of their family would be kept safe. He'd set his untouched drink on the side table and nestled himself in Finland's arms. With his warmth through their shirts, the chill in Iceland's bones eventually subsided, leaving him feeling warm and just as loved as before their lives turned into a tragedy.

"It's really late," whispered Finland, picking Iceland up in his arms with the blankets wrapped around him.

Iceland hummed in agreement as Finland carried him to his room and set him down on his twin-sized bed. When Finland started to walk away, Iceland reached out and held the hem of his shirt.

"Please stay," he begged quietly. "I want you to be here when the.. dreams.. come."

Finland hummed and nodded. They both needed their sleep for their trip to America. He went to the spare bedroom to change into pyjamas and went back to join Iceland. With both of them bundled in thick blankets and cuddled together, they easily slipped into sleep.

Iceland still dreamt of their nightmarish deaths, watching as their skin peeled off their bones in roiling flames and flaking into ash. He felt their agony as though he were living it himself, his flesh boiling as he whimpered in his sleep and Finland soothingly rubbed his heated skin and stroked back his hair from his sweating forehead. He would never forget their screams, and he would never forgive Russia.

* * *

**A/N**: I'm fully aware that ship burials were not a common practice for Vikings. They typically cremated in a funeral pyre (only way to get the fire hot enough to completely burn the bodies) or buried in a funeral mound called a tumulus. It's _theorized_ that in _some regions_, only the wealthy and those of very high status (like a king) would be buried with a ship or other mode of transportation, 'cause let's face it—hand-building a long-ship would take months. They didn't have the time or trees to bury every corpse with a ship or wagon. They didn't even have the time or trees to bury every _important_ corpse with a ship or wagon.

But I think Norway, Denmark, and Sweden are more than deserving of this honour, especially in a modern age where a long-ships are more affordably made :3c


	13. Blessed

**December 24, 2062**

Iceland never thought this day would come: he and Finland were spending Christmas alone.

They weren't always Christians and they haven't been especially _devout_ Christians in recent decades, but Christmas still held something sacred to them. It was the only time of the year where Norway didn't nag and simply shrugged and smiled, while Denmark was less of a buffoon, and Sweden looked eternally happy.

He absolutely _hated_ spending any of it without them… Every tradition they held together felt hollow and sad without them, leaving a gaping hole where happiness once rested.

They may have been annoying most of the time, but he loved them for it. And now they were gone.

Sometimes he felt like they were still there, like they never completely left, but Iceland still felt hollow where his heart once laid. If he didn't have Finland, he didn't know how he could possibly continue celebrating Christmas.

He would've most likely stayed home, in the dark, eating raw ramen while watching reruns of Friends on Netflix. He would've done anything to forget how happy he used to be, and how horrible he felt for being such a horrible brother to them.

He would've given anything to have taken back all those years of denying Norway as his big brother. That, by far, was his biggest regret.

"Icey, gimme those lights," said Finland from up on the ladder. He insisted on getting a real pine tree into the house they now shared, even if it wasn't Sweden that cut it down for them like he always did…

Iceland mechanically strung the lights up to Finland so he could continue to wound them around the tree.

"You're doing it again," said Finland.

Iceland sighed. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just so hard…" He often seemed to disconnect from reality, working mechanically, although being around Finland somehow snapped him out of it most of the time.

"I know, Ice, but we'll get through this. We just need to think of our future!" chimed Finland.

Iceland quietly groaned. "Our future looks pretty bleak right now," he reminded.

"I mean _aside_ from the war!" said Finland, tying little red bows into the tree as he moved up. "We signed our alliance with America just yesterday and now he'll keep us safe. He even let us stay in this cozy little house here in New Jersey!"

"Yeah," grumbled Iceland.

Finland looked down at him. "Aren't you grateful?" he asked worriedly.

"Yeah… I just wish the others were here too… I wish they were still fighting by our sides…"

"I know the feeling," Finland weakly chuckled, coming down off the ladder after he'd set a goofy looking Santa-shaped tree topper.

"I really wish you'd get an angel or something like normal people," murmured Iceland.

"We're not normal people," replied Finland with a wink. "Now come on. I have a job to do tonight. Wanna be my little helper?" he offered in a playfully sing-song tone.

Iceland was hoping he'd ask. He nodded and followed Finland out on his gift-giving rounds, same as he does every year on this day.

* * *

By the time Finland and Iceland returned home, they were shivering and cold. Iceland had become numb inside and out, and he was eager to get into bed.

"I'll make us some hot cocoa," smiled Finland, going to the stove. Iceland idly sat on the couch, pulling one of their heavier blankets around him.

"So exhausting… You do this every year?" Iceland asked in amazement.

"Yep! But it's fun being Santa," he chuckled in reply.

"How can you still be so cheerful after everything that's happened?" asked Iceland a little begrudgingly.

"Because if I don't do it then no one will," he said honestly. Iceland felt heat rise in his cheeks. He had a feeling that was targeted at him. "And these are hard times for everyone… It's important to bring a little Christmas cheer," he added more cheerfully, soon sitting with Iceland on the couch and handing him a mug of hot cocoa.

Iceland thanked Finland for the mug and absently stared into it. "I'm sorry, I'm just…" He choked, struggling to convey what he was thinking. "I just really miss them."

"I know," murmured Finland, weighed down with sadness himself. "I keep waiting for Sweden to come and place all your presents under the tree like he always did while I did my runs," he choked. "He was so much better at wrapping them then I was," he chuckled.

"I want to wish my big brother a merry Christmas," murmured Iceland quietly, almost afraid to say it out loud.

"There's no reason why you can't," said Finland. "Norway was always better connected with the spirit world than we were. He'll hear you," he promised.

Iceland nodded quietly, still staring into the hot chocolate like it might have all the answers to his problems. "But Denmark won't," he murmured.

"I doubt Norway _wouldn't_ share with him," assured Finland.

"But I want to tell him in person," murmured Iceland, feeling choked and slowly starting to sob. "I want to tell him I love him, because I never have and I should've."

Finland felt Iceland's sadness as though it were his own. He shifted closer to him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders—they used to be so frail, but they've grown bulkier since their comrades' deaths. "He knows," he whispered in as comforting a manner as he could manage despite his own tears forming. "Iceland, I promise you that they know we love them."

Iceland didn't feel like pointing out Finland's use of tense. It didn't feel like the right time… Besides, he also hoped they could hear them right now.

"Finland," he sniffled hesitantly, his head buried in the older nation's chest. "I love you."

Finland paused a moment at the heartfelt words. He was cradling him in his arms now, running trembling fingers through his snow-white hair. "Would you spend the night with me? Just this once…," he requested.

Iceland nodded weakly. With their mugs untouched, they both got off from the couch and went to the bedroom. Neither bothered to change before slipping into Finland's bed, holding each other close through the night and sharing in each other's warmth.

Iceland slept soundly until early morning. He always woke up early on Christmas morning, and this time was no exception, it turned out. The light of dawn was just barely filtering through the curtains, illuminating the room in a faint orange glow. Finland still had an arm coiled around Iceland protectively and Iceland had the opportunity to _really_ look at him, noticing for the first time the creases of his skin, the little dimples in his cheeks and the very faint freckles that spotted the bridge of his nose. A strange feeling came over Iceland as he really saw him, vulnerable and adorable. It was a feeling he never experienced before and it both frightened and excited him.


	14. Downfallen

**May 4, 2118**

Peace.

Russia felt at peace when he woke up this morning. In recent years, he'd been starting to look forward to their anniversaries—there was always something interestingly humorous America planned that never failed to amuse Russia.

They didn't even bother relocating most years anymore: they only moved when the other started to feel homesick, which in Russia's case, isn't very often anymore. They've been living in the United States for the last five years in a row… Maybe this year they should move back to Russia, he thought to himself.

He got out of bed to go down to the kitchen and make them breakfast. It was the least he could do since America insisted on taking charge of the celebrations… again. Even though this year would be their 50th year united, America wouldn't let Russia take part in the preparations. If Russia was honest with himself, he had to admit he was looking forward to the parade and festivities-and _surprises-_ that America no doubt had planned for today.

By the time the last pancake was done, America finally came in, already dressed for business.

"Oh, thank God! I'm starving," he said as he sat down at the counter.

"Thought so," smiled Russia, handing him a plate with a stack of pancakes.

America didn't waste a second before starting to shovel food into his mouth. "Gonna have a busy day today," he said between enormous mouthfuls.

"Please slow down," replied Russia, sitting down to eat as well. "But now will you tell me what you've planned?" he asked in a sweetly pleading tone.

"Nope!" America swallowed another mouthful. "You get to wait just like everybody else."

Russia pouted.

"Don't give me that," frowned America. "You know the rules: host country hosts the party, and I decided to make it a surprise!"

At that, Russia made a more exaggerated pout, whimpering for effect.

America looked away, embarrassed for him. "You know, you're alarmingly cute when you wanna be."

Russia chuckled. "I like making you uncomfortable."

"I noticed," chuckled America before cleaning off the rest of his breakfast. "Delicious. I'll get going now. Remember to meet me in front of the Capitol at one o'clock sharp."

"I will," assured Russia.

"Right, then. Later!" he said as he left the kitchen again to join his boss, leaving Russia to clean up after breakfast and mind his own business until it was time to go.

* * *

Chaos.

That was the only word America could use to describe what was happening, how he felt, and _who the hell is going to take responsibility for this?_

He was distantly aware of people screaming as others rioted, fire and shards of glass littering the streets. He wanted everything to just _shut up_ for a minute so he could actually process what happened, what's happening, and _where the hell is Russia?_

This was supposed to be a _celebration_ for _surviving_, for making it halfway through their treaty without _killing each other_, whether it was actually peace or tolerance, _they made it this far_.

But now he knew better. Now he could see his people were just waiting for an opening, an opportunity to lash out and here it is—chaos. He thought he was done playing the naive young nation that everyone loved to mock when they thought he wasn't listening, but clearly he was wrong. To make matters worse, just as he was beginning to trust Russia, _this_ happened.

Never again.

Whoever dared to assassinate the 61st President of the United States of America was going to pay very dearly for it, and if it turned out to be Russia himself, then so be it.

Blinking through the migraine he now had thanks to this very public murder, America made his way to the Pentagon. Although they've already initiated the necessary protocols, he needed to be with the vice-president until everything settled down. The armoured vehicle that took him there barely muffled the riots and bombings going on, mirrored by the pounding in his head. The last time he felt this sort of pain was in 1963 and it took weeks for _that_ migraine to go away.

When they arrived at the Pentagon, America was escorted in, still too dazed and disoriented from everything going on.

"Alfred," called a familiar voice.

"What?" he replied, flinching at how irritable his own voice sounded.

"Alfred, are you okay?" asked the same, concerned voice, familiar hands wrapping around his arm to help him walk.

"No," groaned America, and his discomfort was unaided by the bustling in the headquarters. It seemed whoever was talking to him could tell and was leading him to a quiet and secluded office—with a couch, thankfully. He laid down in the darkened room while extra-strength aspirins and a glass of room temperature water were handed to him. Whoever this was could read minds; until the pieces finally clicked together.

"Russia, you bastard," groaned America. "How could you do this to me?"

"Me?! I didn't do this," protested Russia.

"Yeah, like you haven't been dy—"

America stopped himself when he finally looked at Russia and saw him covered in dirt and what looked like blood in some places. And he was wearing his _nice_ shirt too: the light blue button-down that felt really soft and that he only wore on special occasions. His scarf was torn in places, too, but what disturbed America the most was the obvious look of distress across Russia's features. He was worried… No, he looked _scared_. America had never seen him look so vulnerable before.

"I… I'm sorry, I thought…"

"You thought it was a Russian that killed your president," he completed, somehow sounding more hurt than he looked. "I can't say I blame you…"

"No, Ivan, _I'm sor—_"

"It's okay," interrupted Russia, holding a hand up as though to physically stop the words from coming out of America's mouth. The damage was already done.

America bit his lip. "But who…?"

"The FBI are investigating," assured Russia. "And if they don't find the culprit by the end of today, then I'll bring in the KGB and CIA to investigate as well."

America let out a relieved sigh. Clearly, Russia had a handle on it, which he didn't. He must have been growing soft…

"Thank you," he said sincerely.

"It's nothing," murmured Russia.

Now that the aspirin was finally kicking in, America forced himself to sit up—there was a lot of work left to do.

* * *

Several hours passed before the assassin—a disenchanted American, they sadly noted—was found. Unfortunately, the killer committed suicide before he could be taken in.

Russia drove them home when it was finally all over in the early morning hours while America slept in the back with enough pain killers in his body to overdose a normal person three times over. America sadly thought to himself that he didn't know how he would've gotten through the day without Russia's help.

Even as they arrived home, Russia helped America into the house and up to his room. After Russia tucked him into bed, he was about to go to his own room when America held him by his shirt. Russia looked back curiously.

"Yes?"

"Stay," said America in a quietly pleading tone.

Russia was confused. "I wasn't intending to go anywhere at this hour,"

"No, I mean stay _here_," blushed America, tugging Russia towards him onto the bed.

Russia was stunned. "Oh," he murmured. "Oh… Well at least let me change," he said, surprising himself.

America nodded, realizing Russia was still covered in dirt and blood from when he was helping injured civilians at the start of the riots and let him go.

Russia still had not completely processed the strange request as he washed himself and changed into something clean and comfortable. He set his scarf on his dresser for mending later. He went back down the hall to America's room, surprised (but slightly thankful) to find him still awake.

He got in next to him, hesitant to get under the covers, but America pulled him down to him to clutch at his shirt, his face buried in as he cried, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Alfred," reassured Russia, awkwardly patting his back while America slowly crumbled in his arms.

"I'm so sorry I doubted you," he continued to sob, hiccupping with every breath he took. "I never thought an American could do this, I knew they were unhappy, but not this much!"

Russia knew there was nothing he could really say to comfort America and what he was feeling was all too familiar to Russia. He wished there was someone there for him when his rulers were mercilessly slaughtered in the past, but he had always been alone. _Until now…_, he thought, biting his lip.

So for all those times Russia was alone, he held America the way he wished he was held and comforted him the way he wished he was comforted. America's crying eventually subsided and his grip in Russia's shirt softened. Both exhausted, they quickly after fell asleep.

* * *

**A/N**: For those of you that don't know, 1963 was the year John F. Kennedy was assassinated (my humble Canadian ass had to look it up lol)


	15. The Union

**2063, earlier in the year…**

Iceland thought he had moved past petty resentment since it was just him and Finland now, but he was finding he was horribly wrong. As the new year rolled in, he was just getting the hang of living without his closest friend, of being responsible for himself and others, but once again, a rug was being pulled out from under him and he wasn't sure if he could get back up anytime soon.

"Remind me how long you'll be gone?" he asked over breakfast that morning.

"As long as it takes to scout Russia's reach through Europe," was Finland's answer, again.

"It's not your job to play an American spy," murmured Iceland.

"Spying and scouting aren't the same thing."

Iceland frowned. "Yes they are."

"I don't wanna argue," pleaded Finland. "I feel guilty enough taking advantage of America's hospitality, so I wanna do my part."

"Then take me with you—"

"No!"

Iceland flinched.

Finland backtracked. "Emil, you're doing amazing progress, but this is still too dangerous for you," he tried to explain.

"I can't believe you're going to continue treating me like a child," he spat.

"I'm not," insisted Finland. "Facts are that I'm the most experienced of the two of us and one of us has to stay here and be the ambassador of our two nations."

Iceland bit his lip, sinking back into his chair. He hated that Finland was right. Even more so, he hated the idea of them being apart for so long. "If we weren't in a union together, I'd be allowed to go," he mumbled.

"Are you saying you regret it?"

"No," murmured Iceland, glancing up at Finland.

Finland couldn't help but smile at his cute blush. "I promise I'll come back to you as soon as possible," he said, giving Iceland his warmest smile.

Iceland fidgeted, melting from it. "Don't you dare break your promise."

"I won't," chuckled Finland. "Now finish your breakfast. It's almost scary how big you're getting so you need all the energy you can get."

Iceland flashed a small, rare smile and cleared the rest of the plate. That morning, the two parted for the first time in a long time, and Iceland never once stopped thinking about him.

* * *

**Several months later…**

Finland couldn't wait to get back home. This war was dragging on for far too long and there was too much going on at the same time—Russia and America were all over the place. It was exactly what he needed to wish he had stayed neutral in the first place but it was too late now for regrets now. They weren't about to back out by any means.

But that didn't stop him from wishing he was home right now. Home was definitely a better option than living out of a tent on the outskirts of Estonia.

The two of them were currently investigating what looked like a research facility outside St. Petersburg and they were hoping to gain some insight into what Russia was working on in there: whatever it was had high security and an even higher level of secrecy, which is the only reason they thought to investigate at all once it was spotted. They would have missed it entirely had scouts not seen it as they flew over the area.

"I hope this is our last mission," droned Estonia's voice out of Finland's earpiece. "I need a vacation."

"Me too," sighed Finland. "Coast clear yet?"

"Soon. Give it two more minutes."

Finland groaned with impatience. He felt exposed where he was, no matter how much camouflage or snow cover he had. He wouldn't be able to relax until Estonia gives him the okay to move forward with their mission to infiltrate the facilities. He could feel the other Finns on either side of him get angsty too.

He checked his watch. "Is it time yet?"

"No yet," whined Estonia. "Finland, just _wait_."

Finland bit back a snarky comment about how easy it would be for Estonia to say that while he sat cozy at the base with his computers and his fancy software. He sighed again, his patience dwindling exponentially the longer he sat in the snowbank with a growing need for blood.

"Clear," came Estonia's decisive voice.

At the simple command, something switched in Finland's brain, letting him move instinctively into combat. He and his team snuck up to the facilities, breaking their way in and slaughtering anyone that stood in their way as quietly and efficiently as possible.

"Take the third door on your right," instructed Estonia, following the security footage he managed to get a scan of.

With Estonia's measured guidance, Finland weaved his way deeper into the building, taking note of all the machinery he could see to get a grasp of it what was being done here. They were looking for a room that could be considered the main office and their job was to hack its computer by wirelessly downloading its data.

Sooner than he expected, Finland broke into a room in the basement, killing the two men that occupied it before quickly moving towards the computer. He dug out the thumb drive Estonia had entrusted to him and unceremoniously shoved it into a visible USB drive.

"Estonia?"

"Working," he replied curtly.

Now Finland only had to wait and keep guard. He heard an alarm sounding somewhere else in the building and he cursed under his breath. One of his men must have triggered the alarm.

"Hurry—"

"I'm _working_."

Finland bit his tongue. He seriously considered leaving the thumb drive in and making a dash for it, hoping Estonia could remotely destroy it so it couldn't be traced back to them, but the downside to that plan seemed to outweigh the possible good.

"Are you even getting anything _good_ off it?!"

"_Yes_, now _shut up_!"

Finland flinched at the shout in his ear, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, and it didn't help that no one came to the room to take him down. Maybe Russia's scientists put all their top secret information on the cloud (ha!)

"Okay, done!" exclaimed Estonia, finally registering the alarm through all the background noise in his earpiece. "Time to blast your way out, Finny."

Finland didn't need to be told twice, yanking the thumb drive out and making dash for the door. He didn't see _anyone_ on his way out of the building, not even his own men, and the realization made Finland's skin crawl, making him all the more desperate to escape.

He was confused and scared, and with so much adrenaline pumping into his head, he couldn't think straight, only driven to escape alive and in one piece. He wasn't even registering that the alarm's pitch was increasing in volume and frequency until he finally cleared the empty building and a blinding light seared his vision. The blast of the underground bomb propelled Finland out into the snow, causing him to land several meters from where he had been standing when he was last conscious.

And that was the last thing he remembered.

* * *

**Beginning of October, 2063…**

Finally, Finland was _finally coming home_. Iceland had waited all year for this day to come.

He had been stressed and anxious and downright scared for his loved one all year, worried sick about him. They rarely spoke over the course of the year since some of Finland's missions were sensitive and took several weeks, but it had been two months since he last spoke to him.

He only knew about his date of arrival from Estonia, who had called the day before to let Iceland know he was coming. He refused to say much else. Iceland didn't care, simply relieved to be able to see Finland again, to finally be able to hug him and kiss him again.

Iceland fantasized and _dreamed_ about this day, playing it over and over again in his head to envision every possible scenario, every circumstance, every outcome. Some were sad, but most were overwhelmingly happy.

Iceland only felt happy now as he waited at the private airport with America. They both looked forward to seeing him and hearing from him, but Iceland doubted _anyone_ looked forward to it more than he did.

And despite all his anticipation or imagination, nothing prepared him for what he saw.

He was thin and pale, bruises splotching his usually healthy skin. He looked malnourished and diseased, and Iceland was reminded of how Denmark came back to them just two years ago. Iceland was not only shocked by how ill his friend looked, but by the expression he wore. He was a mask of solemn fatality. Iceland barely recognized him.

"Timo," he greeted, choking as he spoke. When Finland looked up at him from the wheelchair he was being carted around in, his eyes had a deadened gaze to them that Iceland knew would haunt him. "Timo," he cried.

"Emil," gasped Finland, his voice hoarse from screaming or disuse, Iceland couldn't tell. Neither sounded right. "It's so good to see you."

And despite the Finn's appearance, his words were genuine.

Iceland wasn't about to hold himself back—he _couldn't_—and grasped at his shoulders, pulling him into his arms in a delicate, but firm hug, his face buried in the crook of his neck.

And from that moment on, Iceland never let him go.

He insisted on wheeling Finland to the car himself.

He wouldn't allow anyone else to help him into the backseat, letting America fold the chair into the trunk as Iceland climbed in beside him.

He held his hand the entire drive to America's manor.

He carried him from the car to the house, alarmed at how lithe he'd become since he left.

It was only when they were left alone in the confines of their room that they finally spoke.

"What happened?" asked Iceland, wanting to piece together this puzzle, wanting to understand.

Finland shrugged nonchalantly. Even if he wanted to talk about it, he couldn't remember any of it yet. He seemed to curl up somewhat into Iceland's torso, seeking some sort of asylum.

And Iceland happily gave it to him, wrapping his arms around his frail, hiccuping shoulders. When Finland started sobbing, Iceland couldn't hold himself back anymore and cried as well, albeit more quietly. He was absolutely certain that they both deserved better than this.

* * *

**A/N**: I just want to remind you guys that your reviews really do mean so much to me! I always love how you guys feel about the story as it unfolds, and we're nearing the end (finally!)


	16. Remembrance

**December 24, 2063**

"I wanna go home," mumbled Iceland. He was looking way too dressed up sitting in America's vintage paisley chesterfield next to Finland, who was just as well dressed.

"It's Christmas Eve, Emil. Now is the time to let go of hostilities, even if it's just for a day," reminded Finland. "And besides, America only invited allies so there's nothing to worry about."

"That's right! And if I catch any of you talking about the war during my party, I'm disowning you," interjected America, coming into the living room briefly, his cheerful expression undermining the threat. "We're long overdue for some fun!"

"Who else is coming?" Finland asked curiously.

"The Baltics and Germany."

Iceland gave him a look. "Canada isn't even coming?"

America wrinkled his nose in annoyance. "He's in South America helping the Red Cross. I would've invited the South American nations too, but they can't leave their people and Matt decided to spend Christmas with them," he informed, masking his disappointment with difficulty.

Iceland scoffed, prompting Finland to elbow him. They both knew America only had himself to blame for their crisis and his brother avoiding him, but he's made it very clear that no one is allowed to talk about the war.

"What about the other Europeans?" asked Finland.

"They prefer coming on New Year's Eve instead."

"So the only reason we're stuck attending your Christmas party is because we live here?" mumbled Iceland, prompting another elbowing from Finland.

"Hey, you don't have to if you don't want to," murmured America, looking genuinely hurt.

Iceland bit his lip, guilt constricting his chest. "No, I want to," he fibbed.

America smiled weakly. "Thanks, man. Besides, better to have a small gathering for Christmas anyway, right?" he replied, leaving the living room to go back to the kitchen.

Finland waited until America was out of earshot to comment, "you're getting brave," to Iceland.

Iceland blushed with embarrassment.

"It's not a bad thing, Emil," assured Finland. "You're becoming more and more like Denmark," he sighed.

Iceland bit the inside of his cheek, fighting his discomfort. The last thing he wanted was to be like someone else rather than himself, much less someone he knew Finland only ever loved as a friend.

* * *

The Russo-American war was in its seventh year. Although both sides were worn down and tired of fighting, neither were willing to concede defeat. Neither would surrender to the man they had spent all his money and energy into taking down. They've entered a stalemate where each ruled over its own half of the globe through invasions, alliances, and buyouts alike, and neither were able to move forward or force the other to take a step back.

They were getting desperate.

America had a plan. He went bankrupt to fund it, although no one knew this yet, not even his protégés living in his own home. He just wanted to have a little bit of fun before putting his plan into action and turning the course of the war, hopefully for better, but also possibly for worse.

Finland could see that America was struggling, but the younger nation refused to let him help.

"You're gonna continue your physical therapy, you're gonna get better, and I won't hear anymore crap about you serving this war," America had said to him earlier this month while Iceland was out shovelling snow. "You're doing more than enough providing workers and specialists. No more soldiers and no more missions."

And Finland got the impression this was non-negotiable and didn't argue further. He would wait for an opportunity to come to him.

So when the Baltics finally arrived that afternoon, Finland was relieved to see Latvia and Iceland disappear upstairs to play video games while Lithuania went off to the kitchen to help America, leaving him alone in the foyer with Estonia.

"It's good to see you," greeted Finland with a soft smile.

"You too," said Estonia a little too mechanically for Finland's taste.

"You don't mind if we sit here a little, do you? Moving around too much tired me out."

"Oh, I can push you around," offered Estonia, already moving around Finland to grasp the handles of his wheelchair.

"Oh, uh… Sure," said Finland. "Let's go to the living room where it's warmer and quieter."

Estonia hummed and started pushing Finland's chair. "You're looking well," he commented nervously.

"Yes, thanks to your doctors," reminded Finland. "Estonia, I hope you don't blame yourself for that."

"Of course I do! You wanted to leave, but I made you stay," he exclaimed.

"You didn't 'make' me do anything," assured Finland. "We both wanted the mission to be successful."

"Yes, but not at the cost of your life," frowned Estonia.

"I'm not dead yet," mumbled Finland. "But… if you really wanna make it up to me, you can tell me what you found in there."

Estonia paled. "We're not supposed to talk about the war," he said firmly, a slight tremor to his voice.

Finland pouted. "You don't think I deserve to know what I almost died for?" he murmured.

Estonia made a noise between a sigh and a groan. He stopped Finland's chair next to the chesterfield before sitting down on the ugly fabric.

"Russia's reverse-engineering a bomb," he revealed in low whispers.

Finland blinked. "What are you talking about? We already know Russia has nuclear bombs and he already knows how to build more."

"This bomb isn't nuclear," frowned Estonia. "It's a biohazard bomb that he bought somewhere and he's trying to replicate it—I guess so he doesn't have to buy more."

Finland took a minute to let this information sink in. "A biohazard bomb… What does it do?"

"Releases a modified strain of yellow fever that's airborne," murmured Estonia. "I assume the strain is made to be more aggressive, too, but in any case, there's no vaccine for it yet…"

Finland did a sharp intake of breath, his fingers digging into the armrests of his chair.

"America knows about it," assured Estonia, noticing his friend's reaction. "He doesn't want it to become public to avoid widespread panic like during the Cold War."

Finland nodded. He agreed, to a certain extent. "So who else knows?"

"Germany. It's practically all he's been focused on since America recruited him."

"I was wondering why he suddenly decided to join," murmured Finland. "After everything he suffered in the 20th century, we were sure he'd stay out of this one."

"I hear he's coming to the party. This'll be the first break he takes since he started his research."

"I bet America forced him," chuckled Finland.

"Oh… Oh, that makes sense," smiled Estonia.

America came in to set the food out so they quickly changed the subject. Estonia was baffled by the amount of food and didn't spare a second to scarf some down as though he was trying to fatten up for the winter. Finland only now noticed how thin he'd gotten since the start of the war.

None of them deserve this. It's not fair.

He was startled from his thoughts when the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it!" announced America, going to the door to let in their remaining guest. "Merry Christmas!"

"Fröliche Weihnachten!" came an equally cheerful voice that didn't sound at all like Germany.

"Prussia! What a surprise," grinned America, letting the two Germans in .

"Can't have a West without an East," said Prussia before cackling at his own joke.

"Right," said America with an awkward chuckle. This was definitely not the time to mention the Berlin Wall. "Make yourselves at home! I made sure they're'd be lots of food."

"Yes!" exclaimed Prussia, rubbing his hands together after taking off his coat and boots, quickly going to digging into the array of appetizers while an exasperated Germany shook his head behind him.

"Thank you for having us over," he said sincerely. "My brother was going mad with restlessness."

"Sounds like Finland," chuckled America, giving the Finn a playful nudge. "Sitting still doesn't suit him at all."

Finland rolled his eyes at the comment. "Someone should go and get Icey and Latvia down here," he said.

"I will," volunteered Estonia, quickly disappearing upstairs.

Finland noticed America standing off to the side with his arms crossed over his chest. He was observing the gathering with a hint of admiration and what Finland realized was joy.

The small party was fulfilling its purpose and he was at least happy for that much.

Estonia soon rejoined Finland, offering him a plate of food as they restarted their earlier conversation. If Finland was honest with himself, he was much more focused on Iceland across the room, keeping a protective eye over him. Everyone clearly noticed that he was growing and the Germanics started teasing him, between Prussia's cackling laughter saying they were "gonna make a warrior" out of him yet and Germany's signature seriousness mixed with just a glimmer of playfulness. Lithuania was glaring at Prussia, calling him a bully and reminding Iceland there was no shame in being a pacifist and that it was better for the world anyway. Memories tickled the back of Finland's mind from far too long ago.

"Finland, what's wrong?" asked Estonia.

Snapping back out of his thoughts, Finland realized he'd started crying. Iceland noticed and weaved his way across the room to kneel in front of him, grasping his hands.

"Nothing's wrong," assured Finland, his voice trembling with emotion.

Iceland gave him an angry frown and Finland couldn't help but chuckle through his tears.

"Really, it's nothing," he said again. "Just that seeing Prussia, Germany, and Lithuania teasing you like that reminded me of how Denmark, Sweden, and Norway treated you when you were an infant."

The others fell silent with a shadow of guilt.

"It was nostalgic, that's all. Don't stop on my account," he insisted, scared he'd ruined America's party so quickly.

Iceland bubbled with laughter. He sprang back up to his feet, and embracing Finland's cheek, he kissed his brow as he wiped his tears, by far the most unhindered affection he has displayed in his life.

"Count on you to get dramatic," he teased.

"I am not," protested Finland, laughing softly. Thanks to Iceland, he felt infinitely better.

From the corner of his eye, he caught America grinning.

This was going to be an interesting evening.

* * *

**A/N**: They're all just so tired of this war, y'know?


	17. Miracle

**December 24, 2133**

Over the last 65 years of their union, Russia and America have learned to get along. They have realized that they have entered a do-or-die situation, and both were more determined to live than die, even if it meant the other lived with him.

Over the last 65 years, as they learned to grow together, they also grew to resent Poland all the more for what he did to them.

"I don't want to go," whined Russia. He was still in bed in his pyjamas and refused to get up, but he was attentively watching his husband run around the room, looking for his suit.

"We have to," said America. "Only reason Poland is inviting us is to make a show of it, and we're gonna give him one."

Russia frowned. "We're not circus animals."

"No, but he likes to think we're his pets," spat America, finally finding his suit and putting it on. "He likes to think he's figured us all out and that he knows everything about us, but we're gonna show him he's wrong."

"By making it look like we're still not getting along?" murmured Russia. "Everyone knows we've been living together, Alfred. They already know we're getting along."

"Oh please, there are tons of married couples that continue to live together even though they hate each other," reasoned America. "So far as they know, we live together because of our dual government, not because we—y'know—_want_ to."

Russia wrinkled his nose in distaste. As much as he didn't like playing America's game, the thought of Poland getting in their faces with I-told-you-so's" and smug pride rubbed him in all the wrong ways. With a sigh, he finally got out of bed to begin looking for clothes to wear to the stupid party.

"I knew it," grinned America.

"Shut up," mumbled Russia, giving America a disapproving glare. America simply laughed and finished putting on his tie before going downstairs to take out the food they intended to bring to Poland's potluck.

The drive there was quiet, but not for lack of trying on America's part. He gave up trying to make small-talk when Russia continued to ignore him, or reply with just a sigh or a hum. It was at this point that it really began to occur to America how much it bothered him to keep their shared life a secret from the others.

The mood didn't ease when they arrived at the party and were let in. Russia carried his scowl all throughout and no one dared go near him, not even America. He didn't know how the conversation came to this, but people started drawing attention to it, and their marriage in general.

"I thought you two, like, had it all figured out," teased Poland, as boisterously as any drunk Pole would.

"Well, we're alive, aren't we?" frowned America.

"That totally wasn't the point of our arrangement," chastised Poland. "You two were supposed to _get along_, but I don't see it. You might as well have come here in separate cars!"

"That is a very good idea, Poland," said Russia, his voice measured in distaste. "That is what we will do next time."

"You're kidding, right?" piped up America, barely hiding his hurt from Russia's statement. "That's not… good for the environment."

"Nor are you, yet we let you live," retorted Russia.

"Why are you making this about _me_? I'm not the one walking around looking like I wanna murder children and sick puppies!"

"Unlike you, I don't try to pretend to be something I'm not," snarled Russia.

At this point, other party guests were watching quietly with soft whispers amongst them, stepping back from them. All, except Poland.

"Looks like you two need to kiss again," he said playfully, hooking an arm around the two of them and dragging them closer together. "Give Big Brother a kiss," he cooed.

Both gave him a frown.

"You're both assholes," murmured America, disentangling himself from Poland to leave the party.

Russia sighed, moving to follow him.

"Why're you going with him?" asked Poland out of genuine curiosity. "You could just spend the night here, I'll drive you tomorrow."

"I'd rather not spend another minute here," scowled Russia. Fact is that an unnerving chill had crept up his spine and refused to dislodge itself ever since he stepped foot in Poland's home and he was eager to get back into his own bed. "Besides, America is my driver."

And just like that, barely two hours passed before the two were heading back to Russia's home with their moods being considerably worse.

"Alfred," Russia called quietly. "I'm sorry for what I said."

"Hm," huffed America.

"If it means anything, I don't think you should be executed, even though your country is the most polluted per capita."

"Oh, how tactful of you," he replied sarcastically.

"I really am sorry," said Russia, his tone quickly becoming pleading, hating how angry America had gotten.

"No, you were right. We shouldn't have tried _pretending_," snapped America. "Now can we please not talk about it anymore? Can we move on?"

Russia bit his tongue and nodded. He knew he only had himself to blame for their argument so he would let America have his way.

"… And now Christmas is ruined," America mumbled under his breath.

"Is that why you're upset?" murmured Russia. "It doesn't have to be ruined, Alfred. It's only eight o'clock."

"No," he chuckled. "Christmas was ruined the moment we agreed to go to Poland's stupid potluck. I knew he wanted to make a show of how he beat us."

Russia frowned and said, "but the night is ours now. No more Poland."

"Yeah… Let's try to salvage it."

America parked in Russia's icy driveway and turned off the ignition. Both went inside and froze when they heard the sound of metal buckets toppling over in the basement where they kept storage and canned goods.

"Please tell me you were expecting someone," whispered America, who had already reverted into an alert fighting stance.

"No, of course not," replied Russia.

America grabbed the rifle they kept hidden in the wardrobe of the entrance (mainly kept for hunting and scaring wild animals out of the yard). With nothing else to do, Russia opened the door to the basement and lit the bare bulb that hung, letting America down with the unloaded gun.

"Who's there," he called, his voice booming confidence and lack of fear. "Show yourself."

He slowly walked down the wooden stairs, creaking every few steps and wishing he'd fixed them by now, but whatever. He glanced around the basement, hearing another clang of metal buckets and a whine from the far back. America could see the basement window was shattered all around the floor and a bag of potatoes had been torn open. Following the slight trail of blood with his eyes, he found the wounded, mangled fur.

"Oh, okay, calm down," he started cooing to the animal, putting the gun down on the work table. "It's okay."

"What's going on?" called Russia from upstairs.

"It's just a dog. Looks like it tried to take shelter in your window well and fell in when the glass broke. Get some warm water and a towel," called back America, continuing to slowly approach the large animal.

Russia soon came down the water and an old towel. America continued to approach the dog in a soothing tone while Russia prepared to wash him and clean off the glass and blood.

"He didn't bleed a lot… That's a lot of fur," he remarked quietly.

"Yeah, he's huge," chuckled America, having finally gotten close enough to let it sniff him. "Hey, get him some food. It looks like he was looking for some."

"I don't have dog food," frowned Russia.

"Then warm up some of that beef stew leftover from the other night," suggested America, softly starting to pet the dog in an effort to slowly earn its trust.

When Russia returned again, it was with a bowl of warm stew which he handed to America to set in front of the dog. He sniffed at it cautiously before starting to lap it up, finishing the large bowl in minutes and sitting with its tail wagging, panting with its ears pulled back—small sign of contentment mixed with caution.

Slowly, they started to bathe the dog, cleaning out all the matted snow, mud, glass, and the little bit of blood on his paws. Their efforts revealed a mix of tawny brown to deep brown to black fur around his face and down his legs.

"He's so pretty," cooed America. "Can we keep him? He's too beautiful a dog to wander around Russia without love," he continued, roughly petting the dog around the ears, prompting happy whines from it.

"Well… We should find out if he has an owner first," reminded Russia, a little hesitant.

"Of course! But if no one wants him, we can keep him?" pleaded America, glancing up at Russia with a twinkle in his eye that he could never say no to.

"Yes, all right," sighed Russia. "But you're taking care of him."

"Deal," chuckled America, smooshing the dog's fur around his face to nuzzle. "This is the best Christmas ever, and I'm gonna call you Rambo."

Russia groaned. "Make sure he's dry before you bring him up," he said, going to find a plank to cover the broken window.

"Sure thing," smiled America. He got up to help clear up the broken glass and lead the dog upstairs. "Hey, Russia?" he called from the top of the stairs.

"Hm?"

"Best Christmas ever," he said again, his smile revealing far more than the statement said.


	18. Last Hope

**Late in the year 2064…**

The stalemate is worsening. In a war that was fought dirty through and through, the stakes were only getting higher and the casualties were getting bloodier. Despite appearances, the ones to suffer the least over the course of this war were Iceland and Seychelles. Finland hoped it would stay that way.

This is why a small well of anger flared when America asked to speak to him in private. His first thought was that America was going to ask his permission to let Iceland be more involved and he was ready to give him an earful on the subject.

While Finland waited for America to finish with his current meeting in his office, he was running every possible scenario in his head. He knew America was struggling, but he had no idea what the extent of it was. He put so much secrecy into his operations, even his allies didn't know what was going on unless they were directly involved.

Finland had not been directly involved in the war since his injury; he knew nothing about what was going on in the war beyond what the newspapers were paid to tell and scattered rumours here and there. The best case scenario that could come out of this meeting with America would be to finally gain some insight into what was going on.

He was tapping his fingers against his wheelchair's armrests in impatience by the time someone in a suit came out of America's office with the nation not far behind him.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said politely to Finland, letting him in. Once Finland had wheeled himself in, America relocked the door behind them.

"You look exhausted," commented Finland.

"I am," sighed America, letting his composure slip a little. "I never wanted this war to go on for so long."

"You do know that most major wars went on for several decades before modern technology came along, right?"

"Yeah, but the wars that _I _fought in were always short," reminded America.

Finland winced at the reminder of just how young America really is. "So why did you ask me to come?" he asked for a change of subject.

"Oh, right. Thanks for reminding me," replied America, sitting down behind his desk. "I need advice."

Finland shifted in his chair. "About the war?"

"Yeah, I'm in pretty deep shit," sighed America. "Around two years ago, I found out that Russia got his hands on a new weapon that would destroy me—create a pandemic. I've had Germany working with this information since, but without a viable strain to work with, there's not much he can do."

Pretending to not know what America was talking about to avoid ratting out Estonia, Finland feigned surprise and said, "he has a bio-weapon?"

"I know you already know all this."

"Oh." Finland fidgeted in his chair again. "So what do you need advice with?"

"Russia's finally threatening to use it."

"Oh."

"Oh, yeah. And I don't have a vaccine or a cure for it yet."

"So what do you want me to do about it?"

America sighed. "I know where he got it," he said. "And I'm thinking of buying one too."

"Because repeating the past is the best plan," frowned Finland, sounding more sarcastic than he intended.

"No, it's not! But I don't know what else to do," said America. "If I buy one, then maybe Germany can finally produce something for me."

"What if he gives you a different strain?"

"Then at least I'd have something to counter-threaten Russia with," murmured America.

"Sounds to me like you already have it all figured out. What do you need me for?" repeated Finland.

America leaned forward with his chin in his hand, propped up on the desk, thinking his answer over. "I just wanna come out of this as the good guy I think I am," he murmured. "And you're a really good guy. Even in war, you're a good guy, and I guess I just wanna make sure my plan isn't as ridiculous as it seems."

Finland frowned. "It's pretty ridiculous."

"What else can I do?" said America, groaning in despair.

"You could always surrender," mumbled Finland.

"Oh," he scoffed. "That's just un-American. Besides, would you quit while _Russia_ is pointing nukes at you? After everything that happened?"

Finland flinched. "No," he murmured.

"Exactly," said America, leaning back in his chair. "Backing down isn't an option."

"But can you afford it?" Finland asked worriedly.

"No," he laughed. "I'm already in debt up to my eyeballs. The last thing I want is to owe everything else to Poland of all people."

"Poland," exclaimed Finland. Various images of life as Poland's lackey flashed through his mind and a wave of pity for America washed over him.

"Yeah… He's my last hope of surviving this stupid war," he shrugged.

Finland frowned, fearing not only for America's future, but his and Iceland's as well.

* * *

**November 15, 2065**

It had been so long since Iceland had been to Eastern Europe that none of it looked familiar to him anymore. He looked forward to this trip so badly, eager to take a step out of America's place and take a hard look around at how the rest of the world was faring since he's been living in the States, that he somehow managed to convince Finland it would be okay for him to join America on this business trip to Poland—so long as he wore a medical mask the entire time.

Iceland wasn't about to protest over something menial like that, especially given the epidemic going on in the States.

"Why won't you tell me how Poland is supposed to help?" asked Iceland.

"I already showed you the file on the plane," said America. "Didn't you read it?"

"I glanced," murmured Iceland.

"Okay. Well, thing is, the virus is spreading a lot faster than anticipated," he explained. "Germany isn't able to come up with a viable treatment or vaccine fast enough. If Poland didn't produce one when he made these bombs, I'll be pissed."

"That would be really stupid of him…"

"Exactly why I'll be pissed if he doesn't have'm."

Iceland bit his lip, holding back his opinion on the subject. When they got out of the cab, he helped America into his wheelchair before wheeling him into the Polish government building where Poland agreed to meet America regarding his crisis.

He couldn't see them right away because he had another meeting ongoing.

"Y'know, you only have yourselves to blame," mumbled Iceland as America let out a rattling cough.

"Sorry," he gasped. "What'd'you say?"

"You're getting worse," frowned Iceland.

"That's why we're here, buddy."

"Yeah, but…" He sighed. "Why couldn't you two just quit while you were ahead?"

"It's complicated," sighed America, too tired to argue over it again.

Iceland let his next argument drop when he heard arguing break out in Poland's office, and it certainly wasn't Poland doing the yelling. It sounded Slavic in origin.

"I'm glad he's getting an earful," sneered America, just as a sneeze overtook him.

"Why're you blaming _Poland_ for this?" snapped Iceland. "You're the one that provoked Russia, and you're the one that bought that stupid bomb and threatened him with it! He's just profiting from your stupidity."

"That's enough."

Iceland flinched at his hard tone. Looking away, he nodded, waiting out in silence.

The argument in the office ended and the doors burst open. Russia stormed out and his gaze fell on America, sick and infirm as he was, with eyes bruised with restlessness and a harsh twitch that ran a shiver up Iceland's spine. He had a slight wheezing gasp when he breathed that sounded like his throat and lungs were scratched with an infection.

"I hate you," he snarled, turning his heel and walking away, leaving a trail of despair behind him.

"Still think I should 'just' surrender?" said America once Russia was out of earshot, getting out of his wheelchair to walk into Poland's office, too proud to go in any other way. Feeling like he was slapped in the face, Iceland stayed behind.

"America, hello!" greeted Poland. "You look like shit, too!"

America groaned internally, sitting down in one of the office chairs and trying not to slump down in it. If Russia can walk, then so should he. "You already know why I'm here. What's your price?"

"Same as Russia's," shrugged Poland, leaning casually in his chair. "Let go of your territories and provide them with everything they need to reestablish their independence."

America's jaw dropped. "W-why?"

Poland shrugged again. "Not like you have any money, and you already owe me, like, a ton of favours," he said. "So the least you can do is start undoing the crap you started."

America felt his cheeks and ears burn with humiliation. "Fine. Just give me the vaccines and cures."

"Already shipped them over," he said, picking at his nails.

America felt the burning worsen and spread, this time out of anger. Iceland was right: he was playing with them. Russia's earlier outburst made so much more sense now.

But right now, he was still too ill for an outburst of his own. He gave Poland a curt nod and walked out without exchanging another word. Too tired to answer Iceland's questions, he remained quiet during the entire trip back home. He got as much sleep as he could during the flight, because as soon as they land, he had business to take care of.


	19. The Contract

**June 2, 2068**

When America woke up, he felt gentle nudges and more than a little groggy from the long flight to Switzerland.

"We're here," said Iceland, his tone unusually soft for his newly deep voice.

America slowly sat up, feeling his head pounding from fever. Why the hell couldn't Poland come to the States for once? Why insist on making him fly to Switzerland?

"I suppose it's because he's always been neutral," volunteered Finland.

"Did I say that out loud?" murmured America, even more confused.

"Yes," he frowned. "You're getting delirious, America. I've never heard of a nation deteriorating as much as you have and _not_ die."

Iceland sighed. Since he was the only able-bodied one, he carried their luggage while the other two nations were lowered from the plane with a lift.

"Think you'll manage to stay awake during the meeting?" Finland asked, worry written plainly on his face.

"Ha! I'll even walk in," he said determinedly before being overtaken with a violent fit of coughing.

"Your pride continues to baffle me," deadpans Finland.

"Damn right," gasped America, letting Iceland push his chair towards the airport.

Although normally the nations would breeze through security, they took much longer than usual in the Swiss airport; it was the actual reason Poland arranged to meet here rather than anywhere else. They were treated like any other travellers and just over an hour later, they were finally cleared where they could wait for a taxi to take them to the conference centre.

America didn't like the look of all this formality. It all felt so official, he couldn't help but think Poland was going to decide something big enough that required to be documented internationally. A small part of him—very small—hoped it would be his way out of this war without having to surrender. But this was a best case scenario.

Even so, he wasn't surprised to find Russia with his boss at the conference centre. He also noted Switzerland (of course), England, France, Canada, China, Germany, and the Italy brothers, but no Poland.

"This seems serious," murmured Iceland in quiet whispers that only America and Finland could hear.

"A lot more serious than Poland claimed," frowned America.

Eventually, they were let into the conference room where Swiss attendants lead each one to a specifically designated chair. America was irritated to find Russia placed directly across from him near the head of the oval table with a single empty seat between them at the head, everyone else seated around them. Switzerland sat at the other head of the table, scowling in annoyance, grunting and brushing off anyone that tried talking to him—America couldn't remember ever seeing his mood so foul.

The attendants passed around water and various snack foods while the nations waited for Poland to come. He was making it a habit to be "fashionably" late these days, but what else could do they? This was his meeting, there was nothing else to do but wait for him. Some idle small talk went around the table, each avoiding the obvious issue at hand. Canada coughed a few chairs down and America winced, reminded that his illness was spreading to his brother and even worse, knowing he couldn't help.

The double doors burst open. Poland strode in, humming contently while the attendants closed the door behind him. He was holding a stack of papers, which he let drop with a thump before sitting down between Russia and America.

"So glad you can all make it," he said, passing down the large files so everyone at the table had a copy, keeping the official document in his own hands. "The Russo-American War ends today," he declared, clicking two black ballpoint pens and handing one to each of the two parties.

Everyone glanced up at Poland with a mixture of shock and confusion.

"What?" gasped Russia, his voice wheezing from his scarred throat—probably the strep that was mixed into the tuberculosis strain in America's bio-weapon from three years ago.

"I'm offering you both a buyout," continued Poland, ignoring the question. "I'll erase your debt to me but these are my conditions: one, each of you will still owe me a minimum of ten national favours which I can claim at any time and for whatever I want; and two, your two pathetically mangled and dysfunctional nations will be joined together in marriage."

"Can he do that?" Italy whispered to Germany.

Switzerland waved at him to be quiet.

"Let him finish," groaned Germany.

"Why did you call all of us here for this?" exclaimed China.

"Duh, because you're all witnesses," explained Poland, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You two have been bickering like a married couple for ten years, so might as well make it official! I will erase your _massive_ debt to me on the condition that you kiss and make up already."

"No," said Russia, angry at the suggestion.

"Yeah, last thing I need is strep throat with my fever," mumbled America.

"You don't have a choice," said Poland confidently. "I own both of you. I decide that you two will marry, you will resolve your problems amongst yourselves, or you will die at each other's' hands, but you _will_ stop killing others around you."

"Isn't there room for discussion here?" said America, grasping for options.

"Time for the vote," declared Poland, clapping his hands together. "All those here in favour of this contract, starting today and ending on this day in the year 2168, raise your hand."

A quick glance around the table revealed every hand raised, all but America and Russia themselves.

"There. It's official. Sign here, and initials here," said Poland, flipping the official documents for them to sign.

"N-no," whimpered Russia in disbelief.

America was too numbed to argue. With a sigh, he pulled the papers to himself, signed where his name was printed, and dated it.

"What are you doing?" exclaimed Russia, confused.

America pushed the papers towards him. "It's the closest to a win either of us will get," he said.

Russia frowned. Wheels turned in his head _but he was just so tired _ and with a defeated sigh, he also signed his name and dated the document. The papers were then passed around the table for each of the witnesses to sign, Switzerland being the last, in order to sign off the location of the meeting.

"There. The Warsaw Contract is signed, and you can all get the hell out of my home," said Switzerland. "And you better hope I never see any of you again until these hundred years are over."

"Wait, it's not over," said Poland. "You both need to kiss."

"No," groaned America. "That's enough. We signed your stupid papers now let us go."

"The condition was that you _kiss_ and make up. Did you _not_ read the contract I just gave you?" said Poland, clicking his tongue in a chastising manner.

"I'm not—_we're_ not—"

"You are," said Poland. "Or I take sovereignty of _both_ your nations. As stated in the contract you just signed."

America and Russia were both about to protest again when Canada piped up. "Just fucking do it."

America looked down the table, his brother's angry scowl so uncharacteristic to him but plainly displayed over his fair features. The dark rings under his eyes made him look deadly and determined to absolutely _hurt_ both of them if they didn't do as told.

Swallowing hard, America nodded. Russia paled seeing this exchange.

There were worst ways to lose a war, and that's exactly what happened. Both were so determined to hurt the other, destroy him, that they fell victim to Poland's scheme, to the hope he provided them, only so he could manipulate them in any way he wanted. Although the war was fought between the United States of America and the Russian Federation, the only one to come out victorious was the Republic of Poland. They were his pawns now.

America was knocked out of his daze when soft lips merged with his, warm, sweet breath filling his mouth. Stunned, he didn't move away. Actually, it was kind of nice, as touch-starved as he was and he kept his eyes closed, refusing to break the magic by revealing who it was. Only when he was sure Russia had stepped away and left the room did America dare open his eyes. So far as his conscience knew, it could have just about anyone else in the room. Anyone but Russia.

When he opened his eyes, everyone else had already left, leaving just Iceland and Finland behind. He briefly wondered how long he'd been dazed, but he decided it was better not to know and didn't ask.

In the end, he was just unbearably relieved it was all over.

* * *

**Notes**: Just one more to go after this, guys. It'll all be over soon...


	20. Epilogue

**Notes:** I'm so happy to finally show you guys the new cover page, drawn by kaffeogte!

* * *

"How did you _really_ like Poland's celebration for the 100 year anniversary?"

"Tacky."

"I hate it when he rubs it in our faces."

"Which part? The part where he forced our hands in marriage, or the part where he beat us at our own war?"

America's eyes clouded. He didn't like to be reminded of either part, but if he had to choose…

"Stop looking so gloomy."

"Huh?"

"I hate it when you're gloomy. Stop it," lamented Russia.

America gave him a weak smile. "We were pretty terrible, weren't we?"

"Yes."

"Don't you wish we could take it all back."

"All the time."

"We deserved the beating we got."

"America, please stop. You're going to make yourself cry."

"Too late," he sniffled.

This happened every year on this day. He'd remember what he'd done, how power hungry he became, and he'd hate himself all over again. This was the punishment they deserved.

At first, their marriage consisted almost entirely of fights, arguments, and hatred, but since they were married with only one government between the two of them, they were only digging themselves a deeper grave with every fight they had. Over time, the rivalry became too exhausting and they gave up on their hatred. Something else replaced it.

"America, come to bed."

America looked away from the window he was standing at. His husband was sitting in bed, waiting for him. He crawled into bed and took his place beside him. Russia wiped his tears away as he's gotten into the habit of doing. In the dim lighting of the bedside lamp, America could just make out the thin white scarring on Russia's neck. He was vaguely aware that he had caused the scar, but he couldn't remember what that particular fight was about. It certainly pre-dated the Russo-American War.

America leaned in to kiss Russia's scar—a nightly ritual for him. Even when they spent their nights apart, America counted them and given the chance, he would make up for all those lost kisses.

The worst part about all this is that it took _Poland_ forcing them together for them to realize they were better together than against each other. It still took years afterwards for them to see that they loved each other. They were stronger together.

"We could build an empire together now," said Russia.

America smiled. Apparently Russia, as always, thought similarly. He turned the light off and nestled himself in Russia's arms.

"Yeah, we could."

* * *

**Notes**: We opened with Finland and Iceland's new blossoming relationship and we now close with Russia and America's long established one. Both couples had so many hardships to go through, but the troubles brought them closer together, helped them forge a stronger bond, and made them invincible in the end.

I can't believe I actually gave up on this fic at some point. It doesn't even have that big a following, but I found the time and motivation, I made myself a schedule and I _finally_ finished it. What a monster.

This fic is over, but I'm certainly not done! My next fic to go up is a continuation of Singing Well, a DenNor fic, and one I'm personally very proud of writing.

If you have any questions, don't be shy! Write me a message, send me an ask, criticize and question me! I love hearing from my readers.

But until next week, farewell!


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